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Age of Elizabeth, Mr. Dusatoy's Lecture on the 40 
Architectural Varieties, Mr. Wightwick's Lec- 

tiu'e on 44 

Antiquities in the Neighbourhood of Liskearcl, 49 
Answers to Queries, 227 

Adventure at sea, An 257 

Buried Alive, - 164 

Cheesewring, The 1 
Castahan Hours, 72 
Coffin Maker, The 81 
Consumption of Smoke, Mr. Owen's Lecture on 95 
Capital Punishments, Rev. J. Webb's Lec- 
ture on 239, 253 
Curse of Kishogue, The 279 

Devonport, 145 

Education, The Rev. Dr. Jacob's Lecture on 181 
Extracts from the Countess of Morley's 

"Dacre," 214 

Extracts from a Landsman's Log, 249 

French Literature, M. Luce's Lecture on 46 

Feeding Time 117 

Flame, 125 

Falconer's " Shipwreck," A critical dissertation 

on 130, 158, 201 

Formation of Hair, Feathers, and Horns, On the 245 

Gaseous Combustion, Mr. Hearder's lecture on 91 
Geological changes resulting from Meteorologi- 
cal agency, Mr. Walker's Lecture on 96, 136 
Geographical Distribution, Habitat, and Migra- 
tions of Fishes, On the 229, 265 

Homeric Palace, The 1 95 

Importance of Shakspeare's writings considered 
as to their influence on the Morals of Men, 
The 26 

Ingenious Typography, 103 

Ireland, Mr. Purdon's Lecture on 177 


Love and Cannibalism, 150 

Long Bridge, 193 
Laws of Electrical attraction, Mr. W. Harris's 

Lecture on the 253 

Memory, Rev. G. Smith's Lectme on 91 

Mountains, On 100 

Moral Philosophy, Mr. Barnes' Lecture on 139 

My Friend and his Cat, 173 

Master and Man, 218 

Mate's Grego, The 249 

Mechanics' Institutes, 263 

Mrs. Hemans, 285 

Naval Architecture, Mr. Chatfield's Lecture on 140 

New Bridge across the Plym, The 241 

Nosmet Ipsi — Enjoying a Breeze, 276 

Opinions on the Poets twenty years since, 270 

PicNic, A 17, 63, 111 
Proceedings in the Athenaeum of the Plymouth 

Institution, 40, 91, 136, 177, 235, 253 

Perambulator, The 49 
Public Records, Mr. H. Woollcombe's Lecture 

on 92 

Pleasures of Childhood, The 148 

Public Characters, No. 1, 185 

Poisons, Mr. Swain's Lecture on 235 

Queries, 176 

Rhetoric, Rev. B. St. John's Lecture on 181 

Reports on Science, 255 

Sketches by a Practising Architect, No. 5, 9 

6, 57 

= 7, 105 

8, 153 

St. Paul's Chapel, Stonehouse, 97 

Stage Coach, A 221 

Spectator, No. 7, The 269 

Steam applied to Dyeing, 269 

Theatre, The " ^ 7, 88, 143, 182 

Treatment of Slaves in Charleston, N. America, 75 

Thermo-Electricity, Mr. Prideaux's Lecture on 180 
Tom Hynes, The Life of 185 

Torquay and its environs, 225 

Teeth of Animals, Mr. Wyatt's Lecture on the 236 

Van Dieman's Land, 207 


Blasted Tree, The 16 

"Bring out your dead," 25 

Bair Down, Dartmoor, Lines on 220 

Cross Ways, The ' 63 

Dartmoor after a fall of snow, Lines on seeing 96 

Deity, To the 129 

Evening Hour, The 172 

Funereal Sketches, 24, 62, 116 

Hospice of St. Bernard, The 34 

Look up to me again, 110 

Lines, 135 

Lydford Waterfall, On the 216 

Mountain Scenery, 74 

Martyr Student, the 204 

Midnight, 220 

Old man's brothers, The 116 

Revellers, The 287 

Sound of Rain, A 24 

Soldier's Dirge, 62 

Summer Evenini>:, 72 
Sonnets, " 72, 73, 73, 74 

Stars, To the 73 

Verses, 213 

Widow ^^ =^ **, To the 124 

Zephyr and Chloris, 104 

Zephyrumque Vocat.— Virg. 244 

;>Cornvvall, 49 



The Cheesewrine, Cornwall, to face pa2:e 
St. Cleer's WelC 
Trethevy Cromlech, from 

the north, 
The Other-half Stone, 
Cross, on Caratoa Down, J 

Trethevy Cromlech, from the south, 52 

St. Paul's Chapel, Stonehouse, 97 

Town Hall, Column, and Mount Zion > ,.. 

Chapel, Devonport, S 

Tom Hynes, 185 

Long Bridge, on the Plym, 193 

Elevation of the Intended Bridge across the } 

Plym, near Crabtree, 



No. 25.] Price Sixpence. [V^ol. V. 


The accompanying engraving was taken from a 
drawing prepared, for the " Museum," by a friend ; 
it presents a view of the eastern side. 

The Cheesewring is situated about six miles north 
of Liskeard, on the south side of a hill, in a wild and 
desolate tract of country : on the hill are several 
other singular groups of granite rocks, some of 
which appear disposed in layers similar to those of 
the Cheesewring. The upper part of the hill is en- 
circled by an irregular low wall or vallum of small 

Borlase, in his " Antiquities of Cornwall,'' has 
given some account of the Cheesewring, which we 
quote in his own words. — 

" The rock, now called Wringcheese, is a group of 
rocks that attracts the admiration of all travellers. 
On the top stone were two regular basins ; part of 
one of them has been broken off. The upper stone 
was, as I have been informed, a logan, or rocking 
stone, and might, when it was entire, be easily moved 
with a pole ; but nov/ great part of that weight which 
kept it on a poise is taken away. The whole heap 
of stone is 32 feet high ; the great weight of the 
upper part, and the slenderness of the under part, 
makes every one wonder how such an ill grounded 
pile could resist for so many ages the storms of such 
an exposed situation, ft may seem to some that 
this is an artificial building of ilat stones, laid care- 
voL, v.— 1835. A 


fully on one another, and raised to this height by 
human skill and labour ; but as there are several 
heaps of stones on the same hill, and also on a hill 
about a mile distant, called Kell-mar'r, of like fabric 
too, though not near so high as this, I should think 
it a natural crag, and that what stones surrounded it, 
and hid its grandeur, were removed by the Druids. 
From its having rock basins, from the uppermost 
stone's being a rocking stone, from the well poised 
structure and the great elevation of this group, I 
think we may truly reckon it among the Rock Dei- 
ties, and that its tallness and just balance might 
probably be intended to express the stateliness and 
justice of the Supreme Being. Secondly, as the 
rock basins shew that it was usual to get upon the 
top of this karn, it might probably serve for the 
Druid to harangue the audience, pronounce decisions, 
and foretel future events." 

There are several rock basins on the stones near 
the Cheesewring. Borlase has given some account 
. of these singular remains, the following is an abstract 
of his remarks : — 4 

" In Cornwall there are monuments of a very 
singular kind, which have hitherto escaped the notice 
of travellers; and, though elsewhere in Britain, 
doubtless, as well as here, in hke situations, have 
never been remarked upon (as far as I can learn) 
by any writer ; they are hollows, or artificial basins, 
sunk into the surface of the rocks. 

^' Since no author has mentioned, nor attempted to 
explain, these monuments ; let us see what light and 
assistance their shape and structure, exposition, num- 
ber, and place, considered, together with the customs 
and known rites of antiquity, may afford us in this 
untrodden path. 

"Of these basins there are two sorts ; some have 
lips or channels to them, others have none : and 
therefore as those lips are manifestly the works of 
design, not of accident, those that have so material 
a difference, must needs have been intended for a 


different use ; and yet both theses sorts seem to be 
the works of the same people ; for there is a multitude 
of these basins which have no lips or outlets, as well 
as those which have, to be seen in Karn-bre-hill, and 
elsewhere, on contiguous rocks. 

"These basins are generally found on the highest 
hills, spread on the tops of the most conspicuous 
Karns, very numerous in some places ; and where 
we find few of them, and perhaps none at all, it is 
owing in all likelihood, to the many rocks which 
have been cleft and carried off for building. 

" They are never on the sides of rocks (unless dis- 
placed iDy violence) but always on the top, their 
openings horizontally facing the heavens. They 
are often found on the tops of logan, or rocking 
stones ; wherefore they, as well as those, should 
seem to have some affinity to, and to be in their seve- 
ral kinds subservient, (on different occasions) to the 
same superstition. 

" Some are found sunk into thin flat stones, but 
they are oftner worked into more substantial and 
massive blocks. 

" The shape of these basins is not uniform ; some 
are quite irregular, some oval, and some are exactly 
circular : one, I measured at Karn-bre, is a very re- 
gular eUipsis. Their openings do not converge in 
the top as a jar or hogshead, but ratlier spread and 
widen, as if to expose the hollow as much as possible 
to the skies. 

" Some have little falls into a larger basin, which 
receives their tribute, and detains it, having no out- 
let. Other large ones, intermixed with little ones, 
have passages from one to another; and by success- 
ive falls uniting, transmit what they receive into one 
common basin, which has a drain to it, that serves 
itself and all the basins above it. 

" The floor of these basins (if I may so call it) is 
generally sunk to a horizontal level, or at least shel- 
ving ; so as that whatever falls into it, may run off 
into the next basin, then into a third, and so on ; this 


I have observed more especially in the works of this 
kind which have most art, and are most finished ; 
but in others, which savour less of workmanship, the 
bottom is not so exactly levelled. 

**The lips do not all point in the same direction, 
some tending to the south, some to the west, others 
to the north, others again to the intermediate points 
of the compass, by which it seems as if the makers 
had been determined in this particular, not by anv 
mystical veneration for one region of the heavens 
more than another, but by the shape and inclination, 
of the rock, and for the most easy, and convenient 

"The size of them is as different as their shape, 
they are formed from six feet to a few inches diameter. 

" Many uses may suggest themselves to the imag- 
inations of the curious from the description of these 
new, and hitherto scarce mentioned monuments ; in 
order therefore to obviate some prepossessions, and 
prevent the mind from resting so far on groundless 
suppositions, as may make it more difficult to embrace 
the truth, I shall first consider (by comparing and 
recurring to the foregoing properties of these basins) 
what, in all probability, cannot have been the design 
of them, and then submit to the reader a conjecture 
or two relating to the intended use of them, drawn 
from their shape, structure, number, and situation, 
and comformable to some universal principles and 
tenets of the ancients. 

" Some may perhaps imagine that they were de- 
signed to prepare and dry salt in for human use ; 
(because, on the sea shore in Cornwall, we find little 
hollows in the rocks spread with the whitest sea salt) 
but these basins are found in great plenty many 
miles distant from the sea. 

" Diodorus Sic. (Lib. iii. cap. i.) informs us, that 
the men employed about the gold mines in Ethiopia 
take a piece of the rock, (viz. of the ore broke out of 
the mine with its pabulum) of such a certain quantity, 
and pound it in a stone mortar till it be as small as 


vetch : and the ancient tinners had certainly the 
same custom of pomiding in stone troughs their tin 
ore, before stamping mills were found out : it may 
therefore be imagined, that these basins were intend- 
ed for so many troughs to pound their tin ore in, 
especially if no such monument occurs in other parts 
of this island ; but there are many objections to this 
use of these basins. First, these basins are on the 
tops of hills, whereas, the ancient workings for tin 
were altogether in valleys, by way of stream work, 
'or washing (by the help of adjacent rivers) the tin 
brought down from the hills by the deluge, and vio- 
lent rains. These basins are generally far from 
water, which every one knows is of absolute necessity 
to promote the pulverizing any stubborn, obdurate 
stones, as our tin ores generally are. In the next 
place, it may be observed, that if these basins had 
been much used in pounding tin, they would be all 
concave at the bottom ; but what is more convincing 
still, is, that many of the basins are found on such 
high and almost inaccessible rocks, that people must 
have been very simple indeed to have made them 
there, when they had so weighty a substance to man- 
ufacture by their means, and must have lifted up 
and let down both the tin and themselves with such 

^' It may with more reason be thought that these 
monuments were intended some way or other for the 
purposes of religion, rather than of mechanics ; and 
according to our proposed method we will first shew 
what religious use they seem not to have been intended 
for. First, they are evidently too shallow and irreg- 
ular, and too close together, to have received obelisks, 
or stone deities erected in them. 

" Neither do they seem to have been designed for 
altars, either of sacrifice, of hbation, or holy fires. 

'^ The ancients indeed sacrificed on rocks ; but 
the rocks of which we are discoursing, have their 
surfaces scooped out in such a manner as no altar 
extant, or on record ever shewed the like : altars of 


20 feet high, and more (for so high are some of our 
rock-basins) without any easier access than climbing 
from rock to rock, are no where to be found. If 
they were designed for a whole burnt sacrifice, how 
should the victim, or the necessary fuel^ without 
great labour be drawn up to the top of the altar ? 
How should the fire be properly attended, nourished, 
and continued in so high a situation as that of the 
mountainous rock at Karn-bre ? To what purpose 
the small basins round that capacious urn, which 
stood on the top of this rock, of three feet diameter, 
and one foot deep, beforementioned/' 

The Druids used the rite of water lustration and 
excavated these basins for the purpose of collecting 
rain or snow water which is evinced by their shape^ 
direction, situation and number. 

*^ From these basins perhaps, on solemn occasions, 
the officiating Druid, standing on an eminence, sanc- 
tified the congregation with a more than ordinarily 
precious lustration, before he expounded to them, or 
prayed for them, or gave forth his decisions. This 
water he drank, or purified his hands in, before it 
touched any other vessel, and was consequently 
accounted more sacred than the other holy-water. 
To these more private basins, during the time of 
libation, the Priest might have recourse, and be at 
liberty to judge by the quantity, colour, motion, and 
other appearances in the water, of future events, of 
dubious cases, without danger of contradiction from 
the people below. This water might serve to mix 
their misletoe withall, as a general antidote; for 
doubtless those who would not let it touch the ground, 
would not mix this their divinity (the misletoe), with 
common water. Oak leaves (without which the 
Druid rites did scarce ever proceed) ritually gathered, 
and infused, might make some very medicinal or 
incantatorial potion. Lastly, libations of water were 
never to be made to their gods, but when they con- 
sisted of this purest of all water, as what was 
immediately come from the heavens, and partly 


therefore thither to be returned, before it touched 
any other water, or any other vessels whatsoever, 
placed on the ground." 

But what parts — few, many or all — of the heathen 
ancient libations, ablutions, and expiations were 
adopted by the Druids cannot be positively asserted. 


During the period that Mr. Sandford has had the management 
of the Plymouth Theatre, he has made exertions of every kind, in 
order to render dramatic performances worthy of public patronage 
to its fullest extent. He has been liberal of capital, and has di- 
rected its expenditure with judgment and good taste. New 
scenery, machinery, decorations, dresses, &c., have been provi- 
ded, and the splendour with which The Hunchback, Masaniello, 
Aladdin, Pizarro, and otiier pieces have been brought forward, 
has, perhaps, not been equalled in any provincial theatre. First 
rate actors have been engaged, whenever their assistance could be 
obtained, and a permanent company of good performers has 
always been kept up. 

' The house was never kept in better order, means having been 
taken to prevent any thing like disturbance or riot in any part ; 
and, by a recent regulation, Mr. Sandford has shown that he will 
consent to be a loser, — in a pecuniary way, for a time — in order 
to effect his determined purpose of preventing any thing which 
might prove an annoyance to the majority of the auditors, or inter- 
rupt their pleasure during the performance. 

Mr. Hield, of the Theatre Royal, Norwich, is engaged, and 
has shown himself very effective as the leading performer of a 
provincial company ; he has a commanding figure, and powerful 
voice, which, with considerable talent, taste, and feeling, have 
rendered him efficient both in tragedy and comedy ;— the latter 
is evidently his stronger hold. In the plays of William Tell, 
Romeo and Juliet, The Honey-moon, Pizarro, Richard III., &c., 
he received much and well deserved applause. 

Vivash, as usual, is pregnant with humour; and, when in 
characters which he knows to be suited to his line of acting, is 
excellent. Those who are troubled with indigestion, or the blue 
devils, will do well to forswear all manner of physic, and look, 
out for Vivash at the Theatre Royal. 

Fuller has improved greatly since his first appearance in Ply- 
mouth, and sustains the low comedy characters with much ability. 
Miss Mason, Miss Jarman, Mrs. Horsman, and Miss Hempel, 
make the female part of Mr. Sandford's company sufficiently 
strong for most purposes : — Miss Mason has already appeared in 
tragedy and genteel comedy, acquitting herself highly creditably in 


both ; but the latter is evidently her forte ; and her Jtiliet the 
best character which she has performed here. Mrs. Horsman is 
not a stranger to a Plymouth audience, and is known as an actress 
of much ability ; her Fenella, in Masaniello, was a judicious and 
pathetic piece of acting. 

Miss Jarman is decidedly the best singer that ever yet apj)eared 
on our stage as one of the company ; she has brilliant execution, 
admirable articulation in running passages, perfect intonation, 
and a great deal of feeling. 

Miss Hempel, has a powerful and sweet voice, combined with 
much feeling; and, in process of time, will acquire taste, articu- 
lation, and accuracy of tone — great allowance ought to be made 
for her at present, on account of her youth and inexperience, as 
she has been but a few months on the stage. Critics have 
dealt hardly with her, but she has borne their severity with much 
good humour; and still does her best. From her vivacity and 
feeling she will certainly make a good performer in light, lively 

On Monday, December 29th, Mr. Kean made his appearance 
as Richard III. : it would be almost supererogatory in us to 
attempt any critical remarks upon his performance, since his 
abilities have been so often and so justly treated by much more 
cjipable pens. It is evident that he has studied this part with 
great care, and fully understands the character which Shakspeare 
conceived. In every gesture, and word, and apparently in every 
thought, he was the fiendish tyrant — the remorseless murderer — 
the incarnate devil — Richard, Duke of Glo'ster. 

Perhaps no incident in the whole performance better displayed 
the talent of Kean in embodying Shakspeare's idea than that part 
of the scene subsequent to his murder of King Henry VI.; in 
which he says of his uplifted weapon — still hot with blood — 

** How my sword weeps," Sec. Ike. 

He made a beautiful point also in the tent scene. 0'ei*worn 
by his horrid dream, and unnerved by the shadows of the mur- 
dered victims of his ambition ; wearied with watching, and torn 
by contending passions — his physical frame seems bowed down 
apparently beyond the power of exertion — an approaching foot- 
step is heard near his tent, and, with wonderful energy, like the 
quick convulsive n:iovement of a dying man, he gathers up his 
faculties, strong as a giant, to meet the enemy : Sir William 
Catesby enters — a friend — Nature, overpowered by her superhu- 
man excitem.ent, is paralysed to the weakness of a child. 

We would gladly go iaitlier, did our space admit, into the de- 
tails of this performance, which stam).s Mr. Kean as an actor of 
the highest promise : time, experience, and his own judgment will 
do all for him all that is needful to place him at the acme of his 
profession. It might appear invidious and fool-hardy to compare • 
him with his father; but how much soever he may now rank be- 
low him — on the whole — as an actor, it is certain that he has 
avoided many of his faults, and is in some instances superior to him. 


No. V. 

" I am content to be a man of valor — I don *t care to show it." — 

The Wife. 

If the preceding sketches have had any tendency 
to intimidate a young aspirant to the honours of 
practical architecture, they may yet leave it to be 
inferred, that the mere theory of architecture is 
pleasing enough. It is only he, who ventures among 
the shoals of palpable brick and mortar, that can 
speak as to the terrors of the architectural " deep." 
There he may, no doubt, meet with calm seas or 
propitious gales ; leaving him either to luxuriate in 
the peaceful contemplation of Art's beautiful expanse, 
or wafting his professional barque from the native 
cliffs of his own imagination to the happy shores of 
approving patronage. It may possibly happen, that 
his career will be as gently prosperous as that of a 
toy frigate on Virginia water ; but the chances are, 
that it may include all the terrors of an Indiaman 
on the Atlantic ; that his vessel may be driven to 
and fro by the contrary and ever-shifting winds of 
caprice, shattered among the breakers of perplexity ; 
or, if he escape from some of these, he may only be 
preserved from the remainder by the conclusive 
measure of a drop from the scaifold. But, O ! the 
pleasures of amateurship ! — of turning over " Stew- 
art's Athens," and ^' Degodetz Rome," " Denon's 
Egypt," and ^' Britton's' Cathedrals ! " O ! the 
dehght of covering sheets of elephant with mighty 
combinations of the magnificent individualities of 
ancient Art ! The charm of never hearing those 
thundering philippics of censure, which would un- 
doubtedly follow their realization in these days of 
utilitarianism. The sweets of exciting the admiration 
of private friends by the vastness of our ideas, instead 
of arousing the enmity of the public press, by their 
inapplicability to modern purposes. The otium cum 
dignitate of building cathedrals, palaces, and niauso- 
VOL. V. — 1835. B 


leums, without estimates, specifications, and working 
details ! — without having to insure foundations, either 
of rock or money — without having to employ lawyers 
in the provision of agreements, bonds, and securities 
— without any vulgar cares, concerning settlements, 
failures, or arbitrations between contractors and 
proprietors — without having to pay five shillings a- 
foot for ground, or any regard towards the subject 
of smoky chimneys, thorough-draughts, and dry rot ! 
There, the delights of criticism — of not only finding 
faults, but of proposing remedies — of sweeping down 
St. Peter's Church, for instance ; and of building a 
new "Basilica Vaticana," after the same manner, 
and with as little trouble, as a physician would 
exemplify in writing a prescription for the heart-bum. 

The following is an exampte of the grand scale 
and ofF-hand manner, in which amateurship conducts 
its works. The author speaks (and rightly speaks) 
of certain defects in St. Peter's : — but perhaps his 
own words had better be employed. 

" Now, St. Peter's, though confessedly the first 
modern pile in the world ; and though a great genius 
presided at its erection, occupied the reigns of eighteen 
pontiffs. Its most striking feature, though consider- 
ably altered for the worse, is stolen from the Pan- 
theon. The general drift of the original design, chalked 
out by Michael Angelo, has indeed been followed, 
deteriorated however by the patch-work of succeeding 
artists. The arcades are too colossal — the inlaid 
marbles in small pieces do not correspond with the 
grandeur of the fabric — the walled part of Bernini's 
peristyle is superfluous — the grand front is positively 
bad. A consideration of the defects of this colossal 
pile gave rise to the following architectural lucubra- 
tion, in a walk one evening under the colonnade of 

" Strike a circle; let the circumference bisect 
twenty columns, with the equi-distance of the diastyle 
intercolumniation ; take any intercolumniation, call it 
the eastern. From the centre of the rotunda, extend 


the radius beyond the circumference one intercolum- 
niation, and describe the portion of an arc of a con- 
centric circle, radii drawn to the extremities of which 
would bisect the third and fourth columns, counting 
from the eastern intercolumniation. 

" Continue five rows of columns eastward ; parallel 
to each two, on the right and left of the eastern in- 
tercolumniation, preserving the diastyle division. 
Raise nine rows of columns westward parallel to each 
two on the right and left of the eastern intercolum- 
niation. Raise also five rows of columns, parallel to 
each one on the right and left of the northern and 
southern intercolumniations. With the diastyle se- 
paration describe the walls of the church, round the 
columns already raised. Bisect the north-eastern 
wall ; and from the point of bisection, with a radius 
from the centre of the rotunda, describe the concentric 
portion of an arc, which will of course bisect the 
eastern wall of the northern side of the church. 
Describe, as before, the two concentric arcs opposite 
the seventh, thirteenth, and seventeenth intercolum- 
niations, counting always from the eastern. We 
shall have then four segments of circles, which will 
be as many lateral chapels. 

" The grand front, which will be Doric, from the 
middle Pcestan temple, will present to the west a 
hexastyle portico five ranges of columns deep ; Ber- 
nini's colonnade, omitting the walled arcade, will 
diverge to the right and left of the four inmost ranges 
of columns. The grand front will then project one 
range of columns ; and this would mark it sufficiently. 
The eastern front might present a hexastyle Psestan 
Doric portico, of half columns only ; for windows 
here would be necessary. The northern and southern 
fronts might terminate with plain Antse. Antse 
might also break the lateral walls, both within and 

^'The exterior columns and walls to be of Traver- 
tine ; the interior columns and walls of white Carrara 
marble. The order : Segestaii Doric. 


'^ Continue above the cornice of the rotunda a 
plain circular member, twenty feet in height ; cut it 
with twelve equi-distant niches of double squares, 
and place in them colossal statues of the apostles ; 
surmount it with a cornice, and crown it with the 
elliptic rotunda of the Pantheon ; not impannelled 
as in the original, but painted in fresco by good 
masters ; preserve the ceil-de-boeuf, covered with 
plate-glass in copper frames ; and here is a new 
Basilica Vaticana. 

"Taking then the diameter of the base of the 
Doric columns at twelve feet, each being six diameters 
in height, we shall have — feet. 

Length from east to west, including the rotunda 1088 

Length from north to south 896 

Diameter of the rotunda 320 

Breadth of the eastern and western nave and aisles. ...,, ,.228 
Breadth of the northern and southern nave and aisles, . . . ; 132 

" The rotunda then would be nearly half as large 
again as the Pantheon. A question may arise, 
whether or no the diastyle intercolumniation could 
succeed, and give sufficient strength to the rotunda. 
Those who know any thing of mechanical forces 
must be aware, that if each architrave were composed 
of two pieces, and a central key-stone in the form of 
a wedge ; the architraves, thus compactly wedged 
all round, would be stronger than if one piece, and 
easily admissible with three diameters. The enstyle 
division would be too narrow for columns of such 
magnitude. To prevent heaviness, I have applied 
to the Segestan Doric the six diameters of the age 
of Pericles. I could have wished to give greater 
character to the nave, by adopting the araeostyle 
intercolumniation ; but reflection suggested that 
this would weaken the edifice ; and, perhaps, with 
columns of such vast proportions, it could not be 
adopted without an arched roof: a feature not purely 
Greek. Now I maintain, that had a similar plan 
to this been put in execution ; not only would the 
architecture have been chaster, but the building, vast 


as it is, would have cost a million sterling less than 
the present pile ; for though whole quarries of Car- 
rara marble would have been requisite, yet that port 
being near the sea, the blocks might have been 
easily shipped and unladen, within a mile of the 
building. What more majestic than a forest of 
Segestan columns of white Carrara marble ! In lieu 
of Fontana's obelisk, a campanile should have stood, 
circular in form, surrounded by half Doric columns, 
of the same style as those of the Coliseum ; these 
surmounted by as many Ionic, and these by as many 
Corinthian, and this would combine beauty and 
utility. Instead of the inscription to the honour of 
the house of Borghese, there should be inscribed : 


Such is Mr. Kelsall's " Description of sundry 
works to be done" in the design of a new Basilica 
Vaticana for his Holiness the Pope. Could not the 
affair be managed with still more brevity, as thus ? — 

Col. Diast. Circ. xx. 

Doric. Paest. Hexast. v. 

Col. Bernini. ccxx. 

Col. Ext. Travert. iij. 

Col. Int. Carrar. xiij. 

Pantheon. Rot. oeil-de-bceuf 

Plate glass copper frames, Quant. Suff. 

Dor. Segest. Cam pan. Coliseum xii. 

Wedge Keystone, Mechl. Forces — 

xiij. Jan. mdcccxxxiv. C. K. 

I am tempted to subjoin one other example of the 
" hey, presto ! " style of castle building. The ar- 
chitect is Mela Britanicus, who, in 1827, submitted 
to the society of the Dilettanti his design for a new 
palace at Windsor, the specification is as follows : — 

" From the eastern extremity of the Winchester 
tower, draw a line that shall join the eastern end of 
the secretary of state's. Raze to the ground all the 
buildings to the right, and destroy defond en comble, 
the principle range of apartments. Destroy the 
guard-room and raise a stone wall eight feet high 


along the line already drawn, which will insulate the 
lower ward. Follow the demolition of the round 
tower and ramparts, (as marked on plan) the earth 
to be shovelled down into the mead below, opposite 
Eton. ' The grand work of destruction then to begin 
at the end of Elizabeth's gallery, and be carried pro- 
gressively round as far as the secretary of state's 
tower, aforesaid. The stones of the old building to 
be piled a few yards off for subsequent appHcation 
to the new works." (There 's an economical item ! 
Now for the new building :) 

" Find the middle point of the long walk, and 
draw a line from it preserving the parallel of the 
avenue northward to the Thames. This line will 
bisect the terrace and palace destined for it. Twenty- 
five feet south of the terrace wall, draw a line at 
right angles with this, extending to the east three 
hundred feet, and to the west the same distance. 
We have then found the length and position of the 
terrace wall to the south ; complete the square. 
Describe a square within the aforesaid, any side of 
which shall be three hundred feet, the extent of the 
new building, leaving a space of one hundred and 
fifty feet all round for the breadth of the terrace. 
Upon the terrace place eight basins of Roman cement, 
(economy again ! ) four circular and four double 
squares, with cycloidal turnings at either end : the 
diameters of the former about thirty feet, and the 
minor diameters of the latter about twenty-five. In 
the centre of each basin, place a river god of bronze. 
No. 1, AbiiSy the Humber; 2, Aufona, the Avon; 
3, Tridentus, the Trent; 4, Sabrina, the Severn; 
5, Tamesisy the Thames ; 6, Vaga, the Wye ; 7, 
Tavusy the Tay ; and 8, Deva, the Dee. Each 
deity to be furnished with an urn of bronze, to be 
supplied with water from the Thames below, by 
means of a steam engine of two hundred horse power, 
(economy again ! ) The urns to pour forth their waters 
with redundant force, sometimes in clear sheets of at 
least six feet in height, sometimes broken by the 


rock below, and the basins to be stocked with gold 
and silver fish. The water to regain the Thames by 
a common subterraneous brick conduit. Four 
marble statues by Chantry round each basin, making 
in all forty sculptures which would present to view 
the principal heroes and heroines of Homer, Virgil 
and Ovid." 

Our architect, then refers to two plates in illus- 
tration of his lofty ideas as to the palace itself; and 
in candour it must be allowed that the designs evince 
a noble and refined taste. I cannot resist making 
the following quotation from his description of the 
proposed interior : — '^ If you take four or five hundred 
Venetian sequins, and hammer them into fine leaf 
gold, setting off therewith cedar roofs, composed of 
beams laid transversely, and exhibiting carved roses 
richly gilt, in receding hexagons, you will have a 
ceiling as noble perhaps as can reasonably be ima- 

Thus he proceeds and gives all necessary directions 
for the several lodges, gates, ha ! ha ! ditches, &;c. 
The book is published, and worthy of perusal, if only 
as to the proof it affords, that there is, at least one 
man of independent fortune and high classic attain- 
ments, who has made architecture the channel of his 
heart's enthusiasm, and has published not a few 
critical observations which the most renowned among 
the profession, may read with advantage. It is 
therefore, not in ridicule, but rather in envy, that a 
poor, hard-working, two-foot-rule architect speaks of 
such a professor as the writer in question. Not that 
the former would shrink from practical operation, it 
being his duty to encounter it: but, that he were 
content to be an architect without being also a victim. 
" I am content," says Bartolo, '' to be a man of valor 
— I do n't care to show it." 


Spring lights up a radiant sky ; 

Gladness crowns the blossomed earth ; 
Soft winds breathe and tremble nigh ; 

Sounds gush out, in praise and mirth, 

From each leafy dell. 

One lone tree stands bald and black 

Like a giant yet unspent. 
Though long struggles' wearing rack 

From his mighty frame hath rent 

Manhood's fearless nerve. 

Spring's soft touch and gentle care 

Never, now, its bloom renew : 
Leafless — in the fragrant air ; 

Leafless — though the silver dew 

Gem its aged boughs. 

In its hour of leaf and prime 

Voices rose from each green spray. 
While its blossoms seemed to chime 

In sweet concert, all the day, 

Wild yet holy sounds. 

Warbles still that minstrel lay 

Now the boughs are old and sear ? 

False friend like, it fled away 
When the time of woe drew near 

Never to return. 

Saddest midnight winds make moans, 
Wafting with their winged controul 

Spirit-sighs — unearthly tones 
Wrung, as from a restless soul. 

Near the blasted tree. 



Thou hast a speculation in thine eyes. 

Macbeth. — Scene, a Feast — Lords, Ladies, ^c. 

Shall I own it at once, and at starting? Yes, I will. For 
it would be a shame to deceive people into supposing me better 
than I am, particularly those who are kindly disposed to read my 
story, and thus make acquaintance with me on my own terms. 
I certainly did deliberately set to work to listen to a conversation 
which was never intended for my ear, nay, worse, which was never 
intended for any ear except the conjugal, and rather reluctant, ear 
to which, in all the confidence of supposed privacy, it was ad- 
dressed. I anticipate the animadversion. It was a rascally, mani- 
festly rascally, thing of me. But the temptation was strong ; and 
I need not tell you, ladies and gentlemen, flesh is frail. 

The day was sultry : the sun was still high. I had just assis- 
ted my hospitable friend and his lady and blooming progeny, below 
stairs, to despatch a substantial luncheon, and we were not to dine 
till six. I had retired to my own apartment, "as is my custom of 
an afternoon," for the declared purpose of severe study, but the real 
one of undisturbed idleness. My long chair (I hate French names 
for English furniture, and never use them) was at the open window 
which commanded afineviewofacountry that smiled in its noon- 
tide slumber. The cattle slumbered too. An article on political 
economy lay open on my knee : it had already disproved its own 
theory; for the demand, I felt, in no degree kept pace with the 
supply. The ivory knife liad fallen from my hand, and the con- 
tagious repose was stealing fast over me, when the spirit-stirring 
voice of Mrs. Allington issued through the opened glass doors of 
the room beneath. The woman tempted me, and I listened. She 
was the wife of my host, honest John Allington ; so he was called 
by all that knew him. Every body loved him for a plain, good, 
honorable man ; and his house was popular with all persons of 
all ages, not less for the frankness of his character and of his wel- 
come than for the sake of the never-failing amusements, and ever- 
thronging society, purveyed by the care of bis adroit and busy 
lady. I will not say that to love her was an universal passion. 
Yet all were attentive to her, and all liked her dinners, and her 
suppers, and her dances, and her "little music parties," as ladies 
are wont very properly to denominate those occasions on which 
they open their houses for company, their windows for air, and 
their grand piano-fortes for " little music." God wot. And she 

had three pretty grown-up daughters, who . But let the 

VOL. V. — 1835. c 

18 A PIC NIC. 

lady tell her own secrets in the following conversation, which I 
have already owned I overheard, and which, in strict confidence, 
ladies and gentlemen, I will repeat to you. 

" Adey was twenty-two last March, though I call her two years 
younger; Maria will never see twenty again; and Julia will be 
nineteen to-morrow. — Something must be done,'' continued she, 
after a long pause, during which it appeared she had failed of the 
answer to which she considered herself entitled. — " Something 
must be done, Mr. A." 

** And why? " answered the quiet man. 

" Why? — Why because the little ones will be big ones soon ; 
they are treading fast on their sisters' heels ; and because my con- 
stitution is too weak to answer the claims of more than three 
daughters out at the same time. You never help me. Do, dear 
Mr. A. ; think of something that may get the girls off. 

" Let them alone, my love," replied Mr. Allington, " let them 
alone, and you '11 see they '11 go off of themselves." 

"Yes," rejoined the lady somewhat pettishly, " I suppose they 
will, but not by themselves. You '11 have them go off with the 
tutor, Mr. Docet ; or the curate, Mr Proseit ; or the bailifTs son 
young Whistler; or " 

" I do n't know a better man any where than our curate," said 
the unrelenting husband ; " and as for the *' 

"Pray, hold your tongue, Mr. A., unless you wish me to go 
into a fit." 

There was a pause on both sides, and no fit was gone into. 
And then the pause was broken (as is so seldom the case) by the 
lady. But her voice had a coaxing tone, as she resumed the 

" My dear, dear John, they are your own children — think of 
that. Surely you must feel a little anxiety to see them happy ?'' 

" Thank God, I do see them happy ! " replied the contented 
gentleman, and drew the window-blind quite up. — " And you 
shall see them happy too. Look at them, my dear : three, four, 
five, six, well grown, healthy girls, romping in the field there 
with their three little brothers. It *s a fine sight, and I can 't 
say I 'm in a hurry to lose it. If they were not happy they 
would not laugh so heartily, and run and jump so." 

" Just like the rest of your obsolete notions," answered the 
prolific and provident mother. " Happy, indeed ! — Get them 
rich husbands, Mr. A., and then you might see them happy, and 
have something to be proud of. — Adelaide ! Maria ! Julia ; " she 
screamed, putting her head so far out of the lower window that I 

A PIC NIC. 19 

thought it prudent to make a corresponding movement of mine, 
in the inverse ratio of the upper ; ** come in directly ! — You '11 be 
ruined in the sun there without your bonnets ! — My dear Mr. A.,'' 
lowering her voice, and resuming the dialogue, "we must think 
of something for tliem : we must get some of them married." 

" Nothing is easier," replied the husband in a dry, business- 
like tone, lowered, whether by design or not, to a whimsical 
unison with that in which her last words were spoken; " nothing 
is easier, my dear Mrs. A. Surely, surely you were not asleep 
last night — no, I am sure you were not — when I told you that I 
had had a good offer for Adey. Our neighbour, Tom Burton, 
proposed to me for her yesterday. If she were to marry him, 
she would only go a couple of miles from us. We might see her 
every day — lovely, and happy, and dear to us, even as in this 
happy hour, with sunshine and home all around her, only with 
one more affection to sweeten the long life which, please God, is 
before her ; and that need not make us jealous, my dear Mrs. A. 
She has known him from infancy, and I am sure she likes him." 

" I flatter myself a daughter of mine can like any man when I 
tell her he is a proper match for her," said the justly proud 
mother. ** But Mr. Burton won't do, Mr. A., and you know it, 
and it is provoking of you. He is too poor: his rich cousin is 
the partie ; it is he that swallows up the wealth and real respect- 
ability of the family^ If we could manage Sir James Burton 
now ! " 

" God forbid ! " said Mr Allington. " Swallows them up, 
indeed ! — Why, he drinks and he plays ; — a drunkard and a 
sharper " 

"Some ill-natured people do hint that he does sometimes drink 
a little more than is good for his health, and does play a leetle bit 
more than necessary, but I do n't believe a word of it : — I won't 
believe " 

" And a glutton," continued Mr. A., as if in a humour to 
proceed in the statement of a sum in which the unit's place was 
still far distant, " and a " 

" A glutton, Mr. A. 1 — What can you possibly mean ? — Do n't 
you know that there never was a time when it was so absolutely 
essential a quality of a gentleman to understand cookery thor- 
oughly ? — But now, dear Mr. A., I wish you would be serious. 
If we could get him, indeed it would be something like a match. 
But the world has given him away already, and I fear there is 
nothing very likely to break it off. Well, what a lucky woman 
Mrs. Carleton is, to get such a marriage for her ugly daughter! " 

20 A PIC NIC. 

" Ugly daughter ! " said Mr. AUington. 

" Decidedly ugly," replied his wife : " as long and as pale 
as " 

" Pale ! " said Mr. AUington. 

" Pray do n't repeat my words, sir — it is not well bred. I 
said pale, and I say so again. She is as pale as a sheet, except 
when she speaks or sings, and then she is altogether as much too 
red. I hate your changeable complexions and your bashful girls : 
just as if they had never been any where, and knew nobody but 
their own papas ; I can 't abide it. We were speaking of Mr. 
Burton : he 's too poor. But we must n't offend him neither ; 
for you know the title and property are on the cards still, Mr. A. 
Tell him Adey is much too young. Say it would be the death 
of me to part with her, and that you must have time to break the 
offer to me. Leave it so; and then, in a year, suppose, if nothing 
better should turn up " 

" No, Mrs. AUington ! " said honest John, rising : " no — I will 
refuse him, if you really desire it. If, indeed, I were allowed to 
please myself, and, as I verily believe, Adey too, I should accept 
his offer directly. But, as for playing with the feelings of an 
honourable and frank-hearted young man, and gambling with 
his happiness as well as with our daughter's, it is what I will 
not do; so I will go and tell him the truth, and " 

"Tell him what? " shrieked Mrs. AUington, in a voice of the 
utmost consternation, and then, bringing her husband back to 
within confidential distance of my ear — " Tell him nothing, Mr. 
A. — dear Mr. A., if you love me, tell him nothing ! Since you 
are not to be guided by my prudent tenderness for our child's 
best interests, do at least only refuse him ; but tell him nothing, 
Oh, my dear Mr. A., how your indiscretion alarms me! But 
now that I have got your attention for a moment, do just sit 
down again, and let us consult a little farther as to what *s to be 
done for our other poor dear girls. There 's Maria and Julia, as 
well as Adey, plenty old enough and to spare. We 7nusf, look 
about us." 

Here there was so large a blank in the dialogue that I began 
to fear I .should learn no more of the secrets of the family. At 
length Mr. AUington for once broke silence, and in a more ani- 
mated key than was usual with him. 

" My dear," said he, " I have been thinking over all the young 
men who visit here, and I do believe I have my eye on one who 
would be a good husband for Maria. — Guess ! —He 's not far off. 

A PIC NIC. 21 

Of all the birds in the air, what do you say of young H- 

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have a particular reason, which 
I may explain hereafter, for not mentioning more than the initial 
of this very respectable name. 

** I say he is a poor, pitiful fool," sharply replied the odious 
matron, "and that he shall have no daughter of mine. He 
spends on himself all he has, and only thinks how to maintain 
his idle profusion, instead of how to get on in the world by 
means of his excellent connexions. He is over head in debt 
already, and his income is not so good by one half as he is un- 
principled enough to represent it to those who, like us, Mr. A., 
have an interest in knowing. But still the creature hns his use. 
He brings others, and will do no harm to the girls, for he phi- 
landers only with married women. He does not want a wife — 
that is to say, not a wife of his own; and, moreover, I know it, 
Mr. A., if he does like one of our girls better than another, it is 
Adey, and not Maria. Take my word for that." 

I said I had a particular reason for not mentioning more than 
the initial of this last described gentleman's name. Out upon the 
malicious old witch ! — I, ladies and gentlemen, I — the blushing 

author — am young H . There is an English proverb 

touching the nature of the personal topics which listeners are 
oftenest fated to hear. There is also a French one which says, 
that " only truth can wound." Every word this detestable woman 
said is true. I do spend more than I shall ever be able to pay. 
I am given to talk mysterious nonsense to married persons of the 
other sex. For I find I cannot hold my tongue ; and I have, 
in my time, discovered that, if one talks much to a young 
unmarried lady (and I have not much fancy for talking to old 
ones), one's discourse is apt to be noted down with a degree of 
precision quite disagreeable by a certain married lady of great 
authority in these matters — her mother. But, if ever I covld 
think of sacrificing myself to matrimony — if ever I could think of 
" altars and homes," in any but the widely patriotic sense — if I 
cow/c/ reconcile myself to give up all the thousand indulgencies 
of celibacy — if, as Alcides did when he married, I could surrender 
my Club — if I could compromise my love of ascension turtle, 
and mock turtle, and of every other turtle for that of one faithful 
turtle, of one little happy nest — oh ! how I should jump at that 
respectable way of life, shared with the pretty, and amiable, and 
good, and dear Adelaide Allington. 

22 A PIC NIC. 

But, albeit this is true, too true, how could that plaguy woman, 
her mother, have known it? For I have never breathed it to 
mortal. I do not talk, that I know of, in my sleep. And if I 
did, how should /Aa^ have enlightened Mrs. Allington? Adelaide 
herself never, but once, caught me off my guard ; and I have no 
knowledge of Adelaide's character, if her mother could have 
obtained from her any sanction to her surmises. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I must digress. Digress, if you please, 
with me. If you do n't like my goings on, shut me, leave me, 
and there 's no harm done. 

In honest John's own den in Allington House there is a picture 
of his dear — my dear, dear Adelaide, when she was but a child. 
" How I do love," says the Ettrick Shepherd (and how I do 
agree with him), " how I do love a well-educated little girl of 
twelve." It is an age worth so much more than all other ages ; 
— when the young heart is so entirely occupied with the warm 
visitings of its own innocent gladness, (and at that age the ten- 
derest heart is always the most joyous, for it has never known a 
stain or a sorrow). It is a merry, because a pure and honest age, 
and because its affections seem to it ta be immortal ; — death has 
never severed, nor unkindness blighted, one bud of their sweet 
stock. Alas! that such an age should ever lose its charm, — 
for lose that charm it will and must. There is the presence, and 
the consciousness, and the love, of all good — and the absence 
and the ignorance of all ill. There is the fair and full promise of 
all that hope can paint (and hope paints well); there is the fair 
and full apology (and how seldom is the apology required !), for 
that mystic, undisputed power, which, never claimed by the 
feebler sex as a right, is sure to be yielded by the other, as much 
from impulse as from courtesy. At that age the features repeat, 
with ready truth, the blameless story of the eager mind. How 
modestly are the outpourings of a buoyant spirit tempered by the 
deepening tinge of that bashful yet dimpled cheek, and how elo- 
quently are they pleaded for in the stealthy glance of that half- 
penitent, half-laughing eye. There is nothing under the sky like 
the clear deep beauty of the eye which I am thinking of, unless 
it be the ocean when it lies calm and open to the sunshine, and 
reflects only the brightness and the colours of heaven, on which 
it looks. 

Do you understand me, ladies and gentlemen ? If you do not, 
I pity you, all, and equally. 

A PIC NIC. 23 

It was from a long, stedfast gaze upon this picture that I was 
one day roused by the gentle voice of the original herself, then 
but a few years older, who had been sent by her father to desire 
my company during his ride. She had approached quite close 
to me before I perceived her ; and probably she had already 
spoken unheeded. A playful but diffident look claimed identity 
with that recorded on the canvass, and, as her eye followed mine 
to what had been the cause of my abstraction, the glow on her 
cheek became as deep as in childhood. We were silent. I felt 
like a detected thief — yet why? — It was no offence; and if it 
were, surely I was before a judge who had no great reason to be 
severe. At length, with a sigh, she said, " Do you know I was 
very happy when that was painted? A dear friend, a very dear 
friend, the companion of my infancy, was drawn at the same 
time. They were romps, I believe, rather than sittings, and we 
were sorry when they ended.'' ' 

" And who was your very dear friend, Adelaide ? " quoth I, 
with an awkward prophetic anxiety. 

" Our neighbour, Mr. Burton," she half whispered. It was 
enough. The tone and look told me the secret of her ingenuous 
heart, and the hopelessness of what mine had begun to cherish ; 
and fie on the heart which, from that hour, could beat for her 
with any but a brother's love. 

She put her arm within mine and led me to her father. 

And now, ladies and gentlemen, suffer me to lead you back to 
Mrs. Allington and the window. I was in the act of leaving my 
ambuscade, from very anger at the discovery which that perspi- 
cacious lady had thus made of my best secret, and her pitiless 
disclosure of it to her husband, when honest John again riveted 
me to my chair by asking, with his wonted simplicity, the very 
question I longed to put. 

" And how do you know all this ? " said he. 

" I know it," replied his obliging partner, " I know it all 
beyond a doubt. For Madamoiselle questioned Mr. H.'s confi- 
dential Swiss, by my direction, about his master's habits and 
fortune. Broullion affected to be diplomatic with her, but La 
Crepe was too much for him, and out it all came. Every one 
with eyes can see how it is, and I myself spent half a morning 
joining together some torn bits of paper which I watched him 
throw under the great library table, and they turned out to be 
some very bad verses entitled ^ The Irresolute, addressed to A. A.' 
Now do n't fly off, Mr. A.," continued she, in a tone of soothing 


remonstrance, " for now I think of it, I must have a little quarrel 
with you. When we were discussing my projected little pic nic 
last night, I fancied you inclined to throw a little cold water 
upon my little scheme. Now was n't that a leetle unkind ? " 
To be continued. 



The sun is on his noontide march, 
Flaming through the unshadowed arch. 
That, pervious to his scorching smiles, 
Hangs o'er the Carib mountain isles. 
Hast thou not viewed, at such a time, 
The sea-mist on his walk sublime : 
Seen man and beast, like Israel's crowd. 
Bowed down before that glorious cloud ? 
As each ear long lent to pain 
Drinks the sound of coming rain. 

Thus, on Carmel's arid sod. 
Bowed the chastened man of God, 
'Whiles his servant watched the sea 
Steadfast, but despondingly. 
Now a cloud obstructs the calm. 
Small — no larger than your palm : — 
" Yet enough ; let Ahab speed, 
Harness quick his fleetest steed ; 
Bid him urge the glowing wheel, 
Hurry ! — hurry, to Jezreel." 

Onward fast the monarch hied. 
Fast the prophet by his side. 
Girded in his mantle-vest. 
Ran, and still outstripped the rest: 
Through the dun and driving rack, 
Earth a river — Heaven all black. 
Flood and fell the coursers passed. 
And the city gained at last ; 
Where — preventing spur and wheel — 
Stood Elijah in Jezreel. 



Hark ! as along those desert streets 

Pale Echo wakes a hollow sound : 
What cry the startled listener greets 

And moans around ? 

Last night the city held a feast ; — 

T was gladness to the heart in man, 
But with the day-burst, in the east. 

The Plague began. 

It passed right on, in arrowy line, 

And smote the captive in his thrall, 
And smote the monarch at his wine 

In festive hall. 

At morn the mort-wain 'gan its part, 

And, long ere day had half gone round. 
The fainting wretch who drove the cart 

Was under ground. 

And Terror, with his eye balls red, 

Went on before with hurried^stride 
And left the dying and the dead 

On either side. 

Behind came Famine : from her breast 

The haggard mother weaned her child. 
Drank the warm draught her hand expressed, 
And wildly smiled ! 

And Madness : one in bride's attire 

Comes, laughing, from a warrior's corse 
And hurries forth her room to hire. 

That o'er-worn horse. 

At night-fall, from the grey church tower 
To where the ramparts' banner waves — 
Nay more — to Beauty's choicest bower 

Was full of graves. 

And still the death-wain's creak appals 

And drowns that lean beast's weary tread, 
In burden to those awful calls 

" Bring out your dead !" 

VOL. V. — 1835. D 





Continued and concluded from page 263 of volume iv. 

Lear, Othello, Hamlet, and Macbeth are the four 
characters on which Shakspeare's fan)e seems to be 
more particularly founded. By different persons the 
supreme excellency of each is maintained — as if they 
were mere literary efforts — and with no regard to the 
individuahty of each. All are highly impassioned ; 
but Macbeth and Hamlet are metaphysically distin- 
guished. Lear and Othello are remarkable ibr inten- 
sity, and as exhibiting a heedless and overwhelming 
violence of purpose. Macbeth and Hamlet are 
marked with more varied feeling — they hesitate in 
the fulfilment of their purposes, which are checked 
by moral and speculative interruptions. Thus the 
four are divided — two and two : they may be subdi- 
vided, as thus : — 

Macbeth is distinguished from Hamlet — not so 
much by any native quality of the villain, as by 
superstitious weakness, and an ignoble attachment 
to the pomps and glories of a world which Hamlet 
regarded as a " sterile promontory " — " an unweeded 
t^arden.'' Hamlet remained moral, because he was 
philosophical in his estimate of human men and 
things. He had never murdered a king for his crown, 
because he did not care to have one. Macbeth was 
the weaker man, but by no means possessed with a 
spirit of active vice and wanton cruelty. It seems 
strange to couple such characters as these ; for they 
are very distinct; but their distinction, however 
great, appears to me of a quality widely different 
from that which at first sight seems to be the case. 
Of Lear and Othello I have already spoken. Let us 
go more closely into Hamlet's character, which 
stands so conspicuously alone, that it may be termed 
a class of itself. Yet, there is no distinct feature 
about it that we cannot more or less comprehend. 

shakspeare's writings. 27 

Every part is to be found in nature : — it is the com- 
bination which is so " solely singular." Hamlet is 
a young man of boundless enthusiasm, and (a natu- 
ral concomitant) acute sensitiveness ; energetic but 
undecisive — of fiery temperament, but too much the 
creature of momentary impulse to fulfil any violent 
resolution not within immediate compass — a youth 
of natural wit and polished education ; of unimpeach- 
able integrity — strong in his likings, and (by reason) 
marked in his aversions — favorably inclined to 
honesty, albeit in " a Fishmonger," and to players 
who "do but poison in jest" — not overlooking real 
roguery and affecting to despise him who only mimics 
it ; hating the quackery of court fashion, and disgust- 
ed to think that man " so noble in reason ! so infi- 
nite in faculties ! in action so like an angel ! in 
apprehension so like a god ! " should be capable of 
folly and prone to guilt ! — that " the paragon of ani- 
mals, and the beauty of the world " should so dis- 
grace his noble nature as to succumb to the tyranny 
of lust as exampled in his uncle — to the meanness of 
a truckling courtesy, as practised by Polonius — to 
the acceptance of dishonorable hire, as seen in 
Rozincrantz and Guildensterne — or to the rule of 
foppery as shown in the " waterfly " Osrick. That 
Hamlet is not yet understood, sufficiently appears in 
the contest, which has hitherto existed among the 
critics, as to whether he is ever mad or not. I had 
long thought — and, since the delivery of an admira- 
ble paper upon Insanity, by a brother member, in 
December last — am more convinced that we are all 
mad, more or less. But, I would ask this question : 
— If Hamlet's denial of madness (after some appear- 
ances of it have been manifested) be no arp^ument of 
his sanity, may we not think that his singularity is in 
a very great degree feigned ? He himself tells us, 
that he will " hereafter put an antic disposition on " 
— and (be it remembered) in the closet scene, con- 
jures his mother to go with him in the deception. 
He is sufliciently rational when he first appeals 

28 shakspeabe's writings. 

before us, nor is it till after he has told us he will 
put on the seeming of madness that he does so. The 
question is, how far the assumption of madness was 
rational as a matter of necessity ? and even allowing 
its necessity, why should he behave with such wan- 
ton rudeness to Ophelia ? The circumstance is, I 
think, not unaccountable. Natures, noble in many 
respects, are yet apt to exhibit occasional littleness. 
However towering a man's diviner qualities may 
appear generally, there may be times when a combi- 
nation of irritating circumstances may so work upon 
his susceptibility as to bring down the rational man 
to a state of " tetchy infancy : " and, it is among the 
" fantastic tricks " of an ingenuous but very feeling 
mind, when disgusted by the world's villainy, to 
expend, even upon what it best loves, a portion of 
its spleen. 

Look at the situation of Hamlet. Too noble to 
enact the part of a court puppet — royal by decree of 
heaven — not only by legitimate inheritance — he looks 
around, and finds himself" most dreadfully attended" 
— the King a villain — the Queen, a wanton~the 
chamberlain, " a shallow, rash, intruding fool" — the 
courtiers, hypocrites — his appointed companions, 

Is it a wonder he should be irritated into strange- 
ness ? " Shall we to the court,'' says he, ^^for, by my 
fay, I cannot reason ? " — In short, though Hamlet 
be not ever mad in the generally understood sense 
of the word, yet great grief and mental agitation have 
at times a positive effect upon his sanity ; and I am 
inclined to believe, that his harsh conduct to Ophelia 
is in some measure prompted by a temporary wildness 
of feeling. I suspect, indeed, that, if I were to call 
upon every individual in this room to pronounce 
whether he had or had not at some time or other 
wantonly worried the feelings of his lady-love — I 
suspect — nay I know — that an answer in the affir- 
mative might be obtained. The circumstances under 
which Hamlet speaks and acts are so peculiar, and 

shakspeare's writings. 29 

the composition of his mind so singular, that it were 
ridiculous to measure his by the standard o{ ordinary 
feehngs. Such a mind is scarcely to be found in the 
wide world; and, when it appears in the confines of a 
court, it is like to play sad pranks. It is disgusted 
by what to others proves dazzhng. Unable to find 
companionship in the palace it seeks acquaintance 
elsewhere ; and if the livery of state, make its pro- 
fessor look like a Tom Fool, he gives his ermine to 
a masquerader and suits himself like a gentleman. 
Horatio spoke of Hamlet's father as a " goodly 
King:'' — but Hamlet only valued him as a man, 
whose like, taken for all in all he should not look 
upon again. 

Thus much for the isolated Hamlet. Macbeth 
now claims attention : we will also summon Richard 
the Third before us, and regard the two blood-stained 
heroes together. We have here a striking example 
of that individuality which has been alluded to as 
the great characteristic of Shakspeare's creations. 

Macbeth and Richard — they are both usurpers, 
murderers, courageous and superstitious : but ia the 
one instance, our abhorrence is subdued by a portion 
of unextinguishable esteem ; in the other by a species 
of admiration. Gleams of virtue and soft humanity 
relieve the darkness of Macbeth's guilt; while 
Richard dazzles by the splendor of an unflinching 
and remorseless career of iniquity. Both are actua- 
ted by ambition, and both yield to its influence ; but 
Macbeth turns upon it as an enemy, while Richard 
glories in obeying its impulse. In the one case, we 
see a man born for better things, and acting, as mere 
war-horse, under the spur, lash, and guidance of a 
fiend : in the other, we behold a villain, the extrava- 
gance of whose ripened iniquity is no more than 
consistent with his infantine promise, and, indeed it 
may be said that, instead of being ridden by the 
fiend, he is himself the rider. The '' milk of human 
kindness " is still flowing amid the iniquitous desires 
o{ the one : the sense of Nature's denial never leaves 

30 shakspeare's writings. 

the other. Macbeth yearns for " honour, love, obe- 
dience, troops of friends : '* Richard disclaims all 
sympathy with his kind, and desires, that, since the 
heavens have made his body deformed, " hell may 
crook his mind to answer it."' He is a kind of pet 
scoundrel — gallant in the field from a love of sport — 
discontented in the hour of peace as having nothing 
therein to do, except to " spy his shadow in the sun 
and descant on his own deformity : '' denied all in- 
nocent opportunity for open display ; and, therefore, 
bent on an abundance of secret mischief. He deter- 
mines, that his villainy shall, at least, equal the alti- 
tude of his especial ugliness ; and there is something 
highly amusing in the childish captiousness with 
which he determines on being a thorough rogue : — 
not so much to answer any great end, as to spite 
heaven for having given him a hump on his back 
and a lump on his leg. But, while Richard lays 
much stress upon the irregularity of his personal 
outline, we cannot but rest assured of his more radical 
rascality. He seeks the most absurd pretensions for 
a quarrel with nature. The dogs bark, and he im- 
mediately supposes they bark at him. He declares 
that nothing in the world seems to favor him, and he 
is therefore determined to favor nothing — to fear no- 
thing — to care for nothing except himself — and to 
convince the world, that if his person be unlovely, 
his power shall be irresistible. 
He is described as 

"The foul defacer of God's handy work, 
And excellent grand tyrant of the earth ; 

Hell's black intelligencer 

Only reserved as factor to buy souls 
And send them thither — " 

The nature of Macbeth is sensitive and yielding ; 
that of the other impenetrable and determinate. 
Macbeth had remained honourable but for the witches 
and his wife. Had Richard married Lady Macbeth, 
he would have, possibly, decapitated her as a very 
iniquitous woman — certainly he had never been hen- 

shakspeare's writings. 31 

pecked. Macbeth is, after all, a coadj utor — Richard 
is, — " himself alone ! " — Moreover, Richard is, per- 
haps, out of ordinary nature. The contemplation of 
his character can, therefore, have little effect upon us. 
The salutary effect of the tragedy of Macbeth is 
entirely referable to the hold possessed by the hero 
on the spectator's sympathy. Richard, on the con- 
trary, we regard with a kind of gaping wonder, as 
we should a Bengal tiger. We know ourselves to 
be in a gieat measure the creatures of custom, cir- 
cumstance, education ; but Richard is described as 
of monstrous birth. We are shocked at an ordinary 
man's iniquity ; but we literally smile at his. He is 
constitutionally an arrant scoundrel. 'T is his voca- 
tion to " bite, snarl, and play the dog," and he does 
play the dog so thoroughly, that human beings are 
morally uninfluenced by his actions or fate. The 
maraudings and untimely death of an ouran outang 
would be as likely to prove seductive or intimidating 
as the " Life and Death of Shakspeare's Richard 3rd. 
But, if in this — as in one or two other instances — 
nature be " overdone " — and, consequently, moral 
deduction be put aside — yet, the character is admi- 
rable as a creation, as an incarnation of villainy, and 
as serving to foil another character natural in all its 

Macbeth (with all his extremity of guilt) is " one 
of us" — alive to pity and remorse — capable of exalted 
sentiments and of appreciating virtue in others — 
sensible to gratitude — valuing reputation — yet a 
murderer ! 

Lady Macbeth's portrait of her husband here 
suggests itself to our memory. 

" Glamis thou art, and Cawdor : and sbalt be 

What thou art promised . Yet, do I fear thy nature : 

It is too full o* the milk of human kindness 

To catch the nearest way. Thou would'st be great 

Art not without ambition ; but without 

The illness should attend it. Wliat thou would'st highly 

That would'st thou holily; would'st not play false 

And yet would'st wrongly win. Thou 'dst have great Glamis 

32 shakspeare's writings. 

That which cries, thus thou must do if thou have it, 
And that which rather thou do'st fear to do 
Thou wishest should be undone." 

From many passages of the play we infer the 
existence of many soft humanities — yet he is a 
murderer ! 

Can it then be (we ask ourselves) that, in one 
breast, qualities so distinct may be coexistent ? aye, 
truly : — but, mark : — Macbeth is deeply superstitious. 
Superstitious minds are, generally the more suscep- 
tible of both good and bad impressions. Born to 
the ordinary inheritance of virtue — but weakened by 
superstition — Macbeth was unfortunate under the 
influence of those especial circumstances, which 
acted upon his weakness to the injury of his worth. 
Now, Kichard is also represented as superstitious : 
but he is no ordinary character. He was " born 
with teeth'* — his youth was " tetchy and wayward,'' 
and we may imagine him susceptible of none but 
ifl^ impressions. Macbeth, on the contrary, might 
have been won over to virtue as readily as he was 
seduced into crime ; and we regard his lady with 
infinitely more abhorrence than himself: for lie kills 
the body merely, while she is the murdress of a hero's 
integrity — the poisoner of her husband's soul, of 
that soul which gave way even during the excitement 
of battle to moralize on the wretchedness of dishon- 
oured age : 

" I have liv'd long eno*. My way of life 

Is fall'n into the sear the yellow leaf; 

And that which should accompany old age; 

As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends 

I must not look to have ; but in their stead 

Curses — not loud— but deep : mouth honour, breath 

Which the poor heart would fain deny but dare not: — 

We are here presented with an illustration of 
constitutional worth annulled by a perversion of the 
mind's energy. Under good guidance — or, even, 
left to itself — Macbeth's ruling passion, ambitioUy 
would have led to nothing more than legitimate 
glory. He possessed some of the essentials of 

shakspeare's writings. 33 

greatness ; but had not sufficient firmness even to 
be master of his own house. In the same weakness 
his superstition thrived. What with witchcraft and 
curtain lectures, his "functions became smothered 
in surmise/' and in a moment of the brain's intox- 
ication, he ruins his peace for ever. In contemplating 
the enormity of his transgression, hope withers in 
his hold, and he scorns to adopt the insignificant 
palliative of his wife's persuasive influence : here, 
at least, he is magnanimous in guilt ! Where he 
might with justice upbraid his seducer, he takes 
upon himself the full odium, and is not less at war 
with his own feelings than with his armed opponents. 
His courage now becomes sheer recklessness. He 
feels, as it were, " tied to a stake" — unable to " fly " 
— but, " bear-hke," obhged to " fight the course." 
Still is he mindful of the witches ; but, at length, 
convinced of their deceptive "jngghng." He can 
fall by " no man of woman born" — but Macduff was 
"from his mother's womb untimely ripp'd." — 
" Cowed," for a moment, he declines to fight, till 
the idea of being publicly exhibited as " the show 
and gaze o' the time" once more renews his energies ; 
and — in an onset of maddened desperation, he dies ! 
If we rejoice at his fall, it is not less in consideration 
of his escape from the tyranny of superstition and 
the dreadful lash of remorse, than in regard to the 
accomplished ends of Justice. He has, long before 
death, acted as a sufficient warning to people weak 
and conscientious as himself; nor need we imagine 
any subsequent punishment exceeding the purgatory 
of his regal days. Many, like Macbeth, are too 
insecure as to their faith in eternal punishment after 
death, to be deterred by the thought of that alone. 
Could their deed of guilt 

"trammel up the consequence and catch 

With its surcease, success ; that but this one blow 
Might be the be-all and the end-all here, 
But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, 

They ^^ jump the life to come. 

VQi,. V. — 1835. E 


But, they may be often intimidated from evil, and 
ultimately established in good, by having shewn to 
them the dreadful extent of that torture that may 
work within the breast, till every essential of real 
happiness is utterly consumed, and the outward 
appearance of which is nothing more than the bleak 
and barren crust of an extinct volcano. There are 
many cases in which the revealed state of a criminars 
living soul, would be more deterring to the noviciate 
in sin than the exhibition of public executions here 
or threats of eternal fire hereafter. Open lo his 
common apprehension the bosom of a Macbeth " full 
of scorpions ! '' Shew him the death bed of a Cardinal 
Beaufort writhing under the torments of despair: 
Make it plain to him, by such palpable examples as 
Shakspeare affords, that 

**He still may have judgment here ; that he but teaches 

Bloody instructions, which being taught, return 

To plague the inventor : that even handed justice 

Commends the ingredients of his poisoned chalice 

To his own lips" — That the murderer 

To know his deed, — 't were best not know himself — 

That the " ocean" of *' great Neptune" will never cleanse from 

his hand the stain of blood ; 
But, that his hand will rather the multitudinous seas incamardine, 
Making the green one red 1 


Throned on those Alpine bulwarks which divide 

Helvetia, frowning with a warrior's pride, 

from that more favoured clime, whose charms beguile. 

And woo the soul with beauty's magic smile, 

High o'er the chamois' lair and eagle's nest 

Stands the lone Hospice on St. Bernard's breast — 

Lone Hospice ! not for thee that land of mirth, 

All cloudless heaven above, and joy on earth ; 

Life in the breezes, verdure on the plain, 

Groves on the hills, and azure in the main ; 

Nor thine those scenes of fair but fading grace, 

Hands may adorn, or mortal touch deface — 


But thine the solitude unchanged since first 
The virgin day-beam of creation burst; 
And thine the deathless majesty sublime, 
Which nature yields not to the wreck of time — 
Proudly for thee her monarch mountains rise, 
Sons of the earth, yet kindred of the skies. 

Fair are the Edens of the south, whose gales 
Blow soft thro' balmy shades and emerald vales — 
Bright are their sunny meads, and blooming isles, 
And streams, which glisten with unnumbered smiles, 
Forgetting, as in happier course they flow. 
The distant heights, which nurse their parent snow — 
Yet not in hill or dale — in field or flood — 
Not in the leafy umbrage of the wood — 
Not in the silver music of the wave. 
Nor those blue lakes the rose-clad islets pave, 
Lives tbere that voice, which round the mountain's form 
Speaks in the fearful accents of the storm — 
That eloquence, which bids the soul confess 
At once eternity and nothingness. — 

Nor here shall mystic grandeur reign alone, 
Firm on her icy towers, and crystal throne — 
'Mid trackless wilds, and desolation drear, 
Has Pity dared her hallowed home to rear. 
And bade the temple of her refuge stand, 
A sacred Zoar in a death-fraught land. 
What tho' the broad and massive structure rise 
Rude and deformed before the gazer's eyes ? 
Tho' roughly hewn of native rock its walls, 
And formed of native fir its humble halls ? 
Yet not the piles of old on Vesta's steep. 
Still o'er whose ruins classic muses weep — 
No fabric mirror'd in Cayster's stream — 
Nor altar warm with wisdom's holier beam, 
Where yet too oft has pride unheeding trod 
The courts devoted to a Christian's God, 
Shall with that artless shrine compete, or share 
The living awe — the spell that breatheth there. 

The snow-crowned peaks, upon whose towering breast 
The thunder-clouds in fearful slumber rest — 
The death-like solitude of that still vale, 
Where never verdure greets the wintry gale — 
The waveless lake, on whose dead surface falls 
The chilling shadow of those sacred walls — 
And that sepulchral cave, in whose dark gloom 
Repose the shroudless inmates of the tomb. 
Blanched by the piercing wind, whose frozen breath 
Preserves the marble character in death : 


These are as some wild dream with terror fraught, 
Which haunts our sleep and awes the waking thought : 
These fill the soul with feelings more intense 
Than scenes which win the eye and charm the sense. 

Mournful the tales the holy fathers tell 
Of those that moulder in that dreary cell. 
Vainly for them when storms were loud and high, 
And eddying snows obscured the brooding sky ; 
When now no more their wearied feet might toil, 
And the gaunt vulture hovered round his spoil : 
Vainly the faithful hounds' sagacious bay 
Resounded o'er the dark and pathless way : 
Oh } who may paint the anguish and the prayer, 
The last sad accents of unsoothed despair ? 
Or who may tell the bitterness to die 
In desolate and helpless agony ? 
Not theirs the turf that hides their brethren's graves, 
Not theirs the yew that o'er their kindred waves; 
No sorrowing friends around their silent bier 
Breathe the low sigh or shed the tribute tear ; 
Tho' haply in some distant region yet 
For each some heart beats warm, some cheek is wet : 
Still may some aged mother's memory roam 
To him who once consoled her widowed home: 
Some maiden still may wake her pensive strain 
For him who ne'er shall list its notes again. 
And with that rose-wreath which he bade her wear, 
Braid the rich tresses of her raven hair. 
But scenes of sorrow such as these inspire 
Alike the savage reed and tutored lyre — 
Where'er the muse her vocal harp has strung, 
The song of death must tremble on her tongue: 
Still must she pour in temple and in cave 
One common dirge— the music of the grave. 

And shall the tempest's desolating breath 
Waft o'er those hills the ceaseless voice of death ? 
Shall mercy sleep, that terror and despair 
Alone may rouse the trembling echoes there ? 
Not thus has Wisdom in her judgments kind, 
To happier climes her boons of love confined : 
In each wild realm of peril too she gave 
Some strength to succour and some power to save : 
Along the Arabian desert's thirsty plain 
Unwearied toils the camels' patient train ; 
With foot of speed o'er Siber's* frozen waste 
The fur-clad wanderer bids his rein-deer haste : 

* Siber, Siberia. Vide " Campbell's Pleasures of Hope." 


And oft the pilgrim on that Alpine height 
Has hailed the dog's kind instinct with delight, 
And in the storm's terrific hour of wrath 
Has blest the watchful guardian of his path . 

And other legends on St. Bernard's steep 
Wrapt in the veil of by-gone ages sleep ; 
Scarce does a cliff uprear its rugged head 
But frowns a record of the ancient dead ; 
For here *, tliey say, from Lybia's burning strand, 
The Punic chieftain led his warrior band : 
The mountaineer beheld with wild amaze 
On steeps untrod before his watchfires blaze, 
And rocks uprooted from their marble bed 
Leave a free passage for his hosts to tread : 
From height to height he toiled his conquering way. 
Till at his feet Hesperia's garden lay : 
The victor paused — and viewed with rapturous glow 
Her sunny vales expanding far below ; 
And thrilled with hope that soon his steps might rove 
Freely by Tiber's bank and Latium's grove : 
That their rich vineyards and proud cities' spoils 
Might crown his conquests, and reward his toils. 

Savage and wild were those rude tribes, who then 
Dwelt in the caverns of the mountain glen; 
Or under some tall rock o'erhung with snows 
Sought their chill shelter, and their brief repose. 
No Christian shrine was there, no vesper strain 
Was hymned by pity at her rock-hewn fane, 
No Alpine horn proclaimed from hill to dell 
Faith's hallowed prayer, and peaceful love's farewell, 
Yet e'en in those dark days some hand had placed 
A lowly temple t in that dreary waste: 
There had some soul confessed the Eternal's throne, 
And bowed in reverence to a power unknown : 
Some heart the present Deity had felt : 
Some knee in uninstructed homage knelt: 
Some eye had traced Him in the tempest's ire. 
And read his record in the path of fire. 
Prompt dictate of the untutored mind, to seek 
God in the solitude, and mountain peak; 
And in the desert regions of the air 
To breathe the tribute of spontaneous prayer ! 

* It is still asserted by the monks of the Hospice, that Hannibal effected 
his passage over the Great St. Bernard. There is, however, evidence suffici- 
ent to prove this nothing more than a legend ; and as such I have introduced it. 

t Alluding to the temple of Jupiter Penninus, on the site of which the 
Hospice is founded. 


But his was not that pure and fervent zeal, 
That holier love the Christian's breast may feel : 
That love, which bade the patriot pilgrim roam 
Dauntless of danger from his native home ; 
Subdue to kindness each unlettered clan ; 
In bonds of peace link savage man to man. 
Then 'mid uncultured wilds and frozen snows. 
Saint of the Alps, thy modest fabric rose ; 
And songs of praise, o'er hill and valley poured, 
The guardian Shepherd of mankind adored. 

And such is love's best attribute — to rise 
Like some pure star in dark and moonless skies. 
Think not she triumphs in the pomp of eartli. 
Or lists the unhallowed voice of heartless mirth ; 
Sits at the high right hand of sceplered pride. 
Steers her gay bark on fortune's waveless tide. 
Sleeps on the couch of apathy, or roves 
With haggard pleasure in her torch-lit groves : 
No — hers to check the mourner's bitter sigh, 
And soothe the restless bed of agony : 
Relieve the tortures of departing breath. 
And whisper comfort to the gasp of death. 

Ages have past since first the Hospice stood 
Amid that dark and fearful solitude; 
Yet rising o'er the mountain's rugged form, 
Spnred by the lightning, reverenced by the storm. 
Yes, storms may reverence still, and lightnings spare. 
But man must mar what nature deems most fair. 
With hand of sacrilege, and sword of flame. 
The Arab horde* — tlie turbaned spoiler came ; 
And weeping Pity saw her rites expire 
Wrapt in the ruthless flood of hostile fire : 
Not thus to perish — for some holy power 
Watched o'er the silence of that lonely tower. 

Ages past on — again the voice of war 
Is heard resounding o'er those heights afar; 
Another Hannibal has dared to climb 
Those mighty bulwarks of primaeval time. 
Behold by Aar's winding course advance 
Thirsting for blood the warrior hosts of France. 
Onward they wend — around the pathless steep 
Their crested helms and shining falchions sweep; 
Wild wave their eagle banners thro' the glade, 
Their proud plumes glitter in the mystic shade. 

* In the eleventh century the Saracens overran the country, and burnt the 


All now are fled, upon the desert hill 
The trump is silent, and the echo stiJl. 
And where is he — the tyrant and the strong, 
The pride of chivalry the boast of song ? 
^aw ye Britannia's stainless flag unfurled ? 
Saw ye the champion of an injured world ? 
Enough — the plains of Waterloo may tell 
How justice triumphed and oppression fell. 
() wake no song, nor tune the breathing lyre, 
To praise ambition's desolating fire ! 
Her deeds are chronicled — the mourner's tear, 
The widow weeping o'er the warrior's bier, 
The mother's heart-wrung wail, the orphan's sigh. 
The fall of empires, and a nation's cry. 
Are her memorials — Yet when time has cast 
Her halo o'er the unforgotten past ; 
When, like the blushes of departed day, 
All save its mellower tints have died away, 
Still shall the minstrel's legendary lore 
Around each haunt its storied wonders pour ; 
Mourn o'er each sacred dwelling of the dead, 
And weep in silence where the mighty bled. 

And still the wanderer, as his footsteps rove 
Thro' the dark shadows of some distant grove. 
Or on the bosom of the blue Geneve 
His white sail courts the balmy gales of eve; 
As fades the outline of the hills away 
Beneath the touch of twilight's sombre ray : 
Still as so fair and frail those cliffs appear. 
He may not think that aught of earth is there. 
But trembles lest that fret-work of the skies 
Should melt and vanish from his raptured eyes; 
Still shall he deem some energy divine 
Guards the lone altar of that mountain shrine, 
Exalted as those cloud-clapt heights, and pure 
As the blanched snows, which on their crests endure. 




November 13th. — Mr. Dusautoy's Lecture on the Age of 

In the commencement of his interesting paper the lecturer stated 
that there was no epoch in British History on which the mind of 
an Englishman dwelt with more pleasure and enthusiasm than the 
reign of the wise and virtuous Elizabeth. In the study of the 
Elizabethan Age, and the characters and works by which it was 
distinguished, the poet, philosopher, political economist, enlight- 
ened protestant, and naval adventurer, might acquire a rich store 
of spirit-stirring thought, and wise and generous principles of 

The age of Elizabeth would be best appreciated by those who 
were acquainted with the early history of their country, and could 
contrast her reign with the middle ages, politically convulsed, 
and dark in superstition — the period of the wars of the roses, and 
tliat which preceded the reformation. 

No prince perhaps ever assumed the reins of government under 
more favourable auspices than Queen Elizabeth; the people of 
England harassed by religious dissensions, and well-nigh exas- 
perated by the impolitic severities of a bigotted administration, 
welcomed her with exultation. — The protestant doctrines had 
spread amongst men of all classes, even the nobility; who, though 
usually opposed to great and sudden innovations had been won 
over to tlie cause of the reformers, by receiving a share of the 
spoils wrested from the Ecclesiastics. Mary's cruel measures 
had excited amongst the more moderate of her own party a pity 
for the sufferers, which was favourable to protestantism ; and the 
lawlessness and crime existing among the lower orders, tnade all 
men desirous of more energetic and less narrow minded admin- 

The expectations as to the merits and capabilities of Elizabeth, 
do not appear to liave been groundless or unfounded, she had 
been educated a protestant, had great natural talent and taste for 
the fine arts, had studied the ancient languages, and possessed 
firmness of character. Her prerogative was almost boundless, 
for fortunately for that age, various causes had combined to render 
the sovereign sufficiently powerful, if prudent, to do immense 
goud to the commonwealth. 

The almost absolute authority of Henry VIII. had descended 
unimpaired to his daughter, this authority had been built on the 
riiins of feudalism, which had been broken down during the wars 
of the Koses. The power of the barons was but small, and a 
fondness for display which pervaded all ranks, circulated much 
money, which finding its way into the coffers of the middle ranks, 
thiy began to grow rich and powerful. 

PLYMOinil INSriTU llON. 41 

Elizabeth's plans for the settlement of religion were energetic 
and decisive, and on the whole were required by the exigencies 
of that 9ge: they might be more duly estimated by a comparison 
with those of Mary of England, Philip of Spain, and Charles 
IX. of Irrince. 

The lecturer considered it impossible in one paper to enter 
into all the details of this period, and not absolutely necessary 
since they were enlarged upon in many histories. He rather 
designed to view the Elizybethan age as a great moral and 
intellectual epoch, in which ignorance gave place to knowledge 
— poets and piiilosophers, wise and enlightended men found fame 
by their mental energies — and in which invention was encouraged. 
The Queen aided by safe counsellors, and loved by the people, 
was the sovereign of the seas and the scourge of tyrants on the 
land. Learning became fashionable, kings had written books, 
noble ladies had studied Plato and Aristotle, Greek and Roman 
literature became widely diffused, energies hitherto cramped, 
were unfettered and a general awakening seemed to be taking 

When Elizabeth ascended the throne, the English language 
was much neglected, while a love of classical literature prevailed, 
and persons of high rank deemed itnecessriry to be well acquainted 
with the learned tongues: the laity and clergy also studied them, 
and no rank nor office of stwte was inaccessible to the learned. 

In proceeding to remark on the learned men of this age, Mr. 
Dusautoy observed, that on the revival of literature in any nation, 
a fondness for poetry — nay an excellency in poetic productions, 
has invariably preceded a proficiency in prose. Homer and Ilesiod 
among the Greeks — Ennius and Livius Andronicus among the 
Latins, and Chaucer, Shaksfjeare, and Spencer, in our own 
country, might be cited as illustrations. At this period, poetical 
writers were numerous, but prose writers few and indifferent; 
many of the former were good, but their numbers were — for the 
most part — rugged and inharmonious, they were too fond of 
quaint conceits, metaphysical subtleties, and the ancient my- 

Fancy and fiction also, were rather too predominant. Shaks- 
peare stood first in the list of writers, in Elizabeth's reign; but 
as Mr. V\ ightwick had treated the genius of our dramatic bard 
with so much ability the lecturer would leave him in his able 

Spencer's *' Faery Queene" next underwent examination, Mr. 
Dusautoy claiming for the author an exalted ])osition as a poet, 
he observed that this poem liad been compared to an extensive 
picture-gallery, in ranging through which the eye is delighted 
with detached groups and figures designed by a master painter, 
and producing an enchanting effect, by their exquisite taste and 
colouring. It is a poem which will not probably be often read 
through, but detached parts will continue to give pleasure after 
VOL. V. — 183.5. F 


repeated perusals, and, to use tiie words of Dr. Aikin, ** the 
whole will be valued as a rich store-house of invention resembling 
some of the reaiainin^j edifices of that age, which astonish by 
their magnificent profusion of varied though partly fantastic 

The Lecturer subsequently examined and criticised the abilities 
and productions of Dr. Donne, dean of St. PauPs, a man of very 
extensive reading and celebrated for his sitires, Sir Jolin Davies 
an eminent lawyer and poet. Sir Philip Sydncjy, autlior of 
"Arcadia;" Richard Edwards, one of the earliest dramatic 
writers, and Christopher Marloe, an elegant poet, but fanciful in 
his style. 

Queen Elizabeth wrote tolerable verses herself, and was fond 
of poetry, but she chose to reward poetic merit with abundance 
of smiles and very little coin of the realm. There were, however, 
some worthy Mecaenases in her ti:ne; Leicester, Sir P. Sydney, 
and the Earls Southampton and Essex, were munificent patrons 
of learning and genius. 

Hooker, Latimer, and Ascham, have left works of much 
repute behind them ; the '* Ecclesiastic Politic" of the first was 
characterised as an able and excellent work; 

In the fine arts, native talent was rare, there being but one 
sculptor of eminence, Kichard Stephens. Nicholas Ildliard was 
the most celebr iled portrait painter. Isaac Oliver was excellent 
in miniature, and Sir Nat. Bacon, an amateur artist, attained the 
perfection of a master. 

Architectural taste was ;it a low ebb : the rich pointed styles 
gave way at the fall of ecclesiastical foundations, to a love of 
fantastic and cumbersome ornament. But few public buildings 
erected at that time remain. 

The Tudors were all fond of music, and of consequence 
proficiency in that art was needful to be fashionable ; but invention, 
taste, and elegance, were not introduced. Among the musicians 
were Dr. Chris. Tye, Thomas Tallis, and Thomas Morley. 

Commerce, navigation, business-like enterprise, naval adven- 
ture, and trade, flourished at this period ; the names of Gresham, 
Drake, and Hawkins, are well known. Commercial intercourse 
was maintained with Russia, Turkey, Africa, and the East 
Indies. At the death of Elizabeth, the Navy consisted of 42 
ships, mounting 774 guns. There was no standing army, troops 
being levied as needed ; she was sparing in her troops, and her 
military enterpvizes were always on the defensive side. 

In drawing his lecture to a conclusion, Mr. Dusautoy gave a 
sketch of the state of the English Constitution during the Queen's 
reign, and gave the characters of the principal officers of state, as 
v^^ell as that of the Queen herself. 

Elizabeth was Queen not only of her kingdom but of her 
cabinet. Her most influential counsellors yielded implicit defer- 
ence to her decisiorjs; and so confident was she in the powers of 


her own mind, that when once fully convinced of the expediency 
of a particular measure, her will brooked no resistance. All 
those to whom she distributed her favor were never more than 
tenants at will, and stood on no better ground than her princely 
favor, and their own good behaviour. In reviewing the character 
of Elizabeth herself, whether we consider her as a woman or as 
a Queen, we shall find much niore to praise than to censure. 
As a woman we look for more feminine softness in her manners, 
and less of imperiousnesss in her bearing, whilst we must wonder 
at, and respect that strength of mind, and admirable sagacity, 
which raised her so far above the generality of her sex. As a 
Queen she merits almost unqualified praise; so much power of 
intellect, such discernment of character, such caution, such 
innate dignity, joined to a princely condescension, such foresight 
in forming plans, and decision in executing them, such unflinching 
political consistency, such self command, such self confidence 
and equanimity in times of danger, never before nor since together 
characterized an English nionarch : on the other hand, her 
dissimu'lation is sometimes apt to disgust an unbiassed observer, 
though, in that age, such a trait in a sovereign was deemed rather 
a proof of wisdom than of insincerity. Perhaps no prince ever 
practised the art of king-craft, as he termed it, more systematicolly 
than James the 1st. Elizabeth was subject to sudden fits of 
anger, wherein she resembled her father, but this, although felt by 
her immediate attendants, and those continually about her person, 
Effected not her character as a Queen. In private life, I believe 
her to have been strictly virtuous, although many have wished to 
prove the contrary. It appears to me that the very uncertainty 
which attaches to her moral character, is a proof of her innocence ; 
for surely had she been otherwise, some one fact or other must 
have transpired which her enemiies (and she had many) would 
have bruited to her dishonour. But her most virulent foes adduce 
nothing but conjecture in support of their charges; and the 
most plausible conjecture is very far from proof. She certainly 
had favorites amongst her courtiers, who had gained her esteem by 
their exterior accomplishments, or more solid excellencies, but it 
has been justly remarked, that although favorites, they were 
not minions; and in bestowing upon them proofs of her regard, 
she never forgot the duty she owed herself or her kingdom. 

Her courage and presence of mind under difficulty v/as remark- 
able. At the very time of the Spanish invasion, in the midst of 
the anxiety of naval and military preparations, she sent a letter 
to the University of Cambridge, containing som.e regulations 
relative to the wearing of caps and hoods; this letter is still 
extant. But there remains one blot upon her escutcheon, which 
her most sincere admirers can never hope to efface, either by 
partiality or extenu.^tion. Her conduct to Mary (^ueen of Scots. 
Mary undoubtedly deserved the fate which she found, for her 
guilt has been pioved beyond a doubt ; but I fear tliut Elizabeth 


in putting her to death, was actuated more by a spirit of jealousy 
than by a love of justice. It was cruel, after protecting her so 
many years, to sign the fatal warrant at last. The charge brought 
by Elizabeth was a grievous one, that of conspiring against her 
life; but it would have been more generous to connive at 
her escape into France, than to stain her hands with the 
blood of her royal kinswoman. Here 1 presume not to defend 
her, but I think it was the only action of her life wliich cannot 
either be excused by the force of circumstances, or defended by 
sober argument: and yet so many and transcendant were her 
admirable qualities, so splended her political career, and so many 
were tlie blessings which her reign secured to her grateful subjects, 
that perhaps the name of no English sovereign lives cherished so 
warmly in the best affections of our nature, as that of Queen 
Elizabeth. Surely if .'Eneas, in addressing the obscure chieftainess 
of an uncivilized horde, could promise her ^the guerdon of a 
never-dying fame, how much more justly may we say of 
Elizabeth — 

• " QuvB te tarn laita tulenint 

Sa^cula ? qui tanti talein gennerc parentes ? 
In ticta ciiiin fluvii current, duni niontibus unibr<e 
Lustrabiint convexa, polus dutn fidrra pascet ; 
Semper honos, nonienquc tuuin, laadesqae manebunt." 

November 20tii. — Mr. Wichtwick's Lecture on Architectu- 
ral Varieties. 

The paper commenced by stating that, in most elementary works 
and small encyclopedias, the article "Architecture" comprised 
little more than the history and particulars of the five orders, 
touching but little on ^^ (iothic architecture" so called; less on 
Egyptian, and being wholly silent on that of China, India, 
Persia, Nubia, Mexico, &c. The lecturer considered this partly 
accounted for by our not having, until lately, any works on 
certain foreign architecture. He however proposed it as an 
extraordinary fact that, whilst we had daily before us some splen-^ 
did examples of pointed architecture, they had been neglected in 
order to follow the proprieties of Palladio. No censure was 
intended in stating this fact, it was merely meant to show that 
any particular architectural mania was not necessarily the conse- 
quence of contagion with any particular examples of art. 

That such vast and splended buildings as the old cathedrals 
sliould cease to arise was accounted Tor, by the decay of Catholicism, 
since the ministers of that faith resorted to means for raising the 
supplies which are not adopted by their protestant successors. 

One of tiie leading causes for the almost exclusive cultivation 
of Greek and Roman architecture during the last 200 years was, 
that powerful but sober reflection took the ])lace of bold and 
somewhat heedless invention; men turned from the glitter of 
multifariousness to contemplate the substance of simplicity, and * 


that whole was deemed most worthy which was most perfect in 
the meaninj^ and fitness of its component parts. The romance of 
Architecture had had its day, and the new school, even as a no- 
velty, was likely to be warmly cherished. Roman Architecture, 
i. e. an Italian edition of the Greek, was invited to England. It 
was in its nature systematised — defined in detail and combination 
— subject to laws founded on simple principles — the issue of 
refined experience — pure and perfect in its kind; these qualities 
were not obvious in other styles more gorgeous and picturesque, 
so that it became gradually established on a footing of favor 
which strengthened day by day. 

An exclusive cultivation of Greek and Palladian architecture 
was to be deprecated, and it was certainly desirable that tiie 
term "architecture" should now be understood in a more com- 
prehensive sense than it has usually been : nor was it a whit less 
desirable that the architectural student, prior to his professional 
education, should make himself well acquainted with classical 
literature; because tlie dead languages always prove a firm 
foundation, whereupon to fix the superstructure of modern 
tongues, and when studied as a means, not as an end, would 
both directly and collaterally be useful in his profession. 

There were three reasons for the partiality shown to Greco- 
Roman architecture when introduced into England — its mathe- 
matical certainties — novelty and cheapness. Englishmen 
acknowleged the grandeur and poetry oftlieir own ecclesiastical 
edifices but looked on the '^ Orders" as examples of ripened 
judgment: as a whole the former were surveyed with awe, whilst 
some of their details might generate ridicule; but the latter were 
g ized on with undisturbed pleasure, being uniform in plan and 
elevation, and beautiful in all particulars. The same feelings 
would actuate them in comparing the classical styles with those 
of India and Egypt. 

The volume of V^itruvius furnished directions concerning 
Greco Roman architecture; Rome itself furnished examples, 
fac-similes of which were multiplied by engravings ; and this 
architecture was cultivated to the neglect of most other kinds. 

In considering the present and prospective state of architecture, 
it was stated that a vast collection of examples of all kinds, had 
lately been acquired by the exertions of Stuart, Revett, VVilkins, 
Cockerell, Degodetz, Cressy, Taylor, Denon, Belzoni, Chambers, 
and others, from which architects could study specimens, that 
might in many cases be worthy of imitation either wholly or 
partially. England had obtained her knowledge of Greek, 
Chinese, and Indian architecture, through the exertions of 
private individuals; but a vast deal more might be done if the 
government lent its aid, and followed by the example of that of 
France, whicli has defrayed the expences of Denon's great work 
on Egypt. The publication of mere views and general architec- 
tural description was not enough ; the professional man has 


need of geometiical plans, elevations, and sections, which could 
be procured by the aid of government much more easily, and in 
less time than they could by the zeal of private persons. 

The lecturer dwelt with pleasure on the consideration that a 
taste for pointed architecture is now reviving : and he thought 
that if the present day afforded the same means which were avail- 
able in former times, buildings would be now arising equal in 
size, grandeur, and beauty to York or Salisbury cathedrals. He 
attributed this reviving to the industry of certain persons who 
have geometrically delineated, from accurate measurement, the 
leading Gothic examples : — our countryman, Britton, has been 
conspicuous in this work. 

The prospect of architectural improvement in England, France, 
and Germany is cheering; and architecture confesses her obliga- 
tion to the water-colour draughtsman and engraver — whose 
endeavours have done much for this improvement. 

Havin'^ repudiated the idea that by cultivating a knowledge of 
Architecture in general we should injtiro the classic reputation of 
Greece, he proceeded to bring in his Bill for ARcnirrxTtiRAL 
Reform, whereby the styles of building in Europe, Asia, and 
Africa were examined as to their fitness, unfitness, or partial fit- 
ness for imitation ; this was illustrated by a vast nuniber of draw- 
ings, but here the nature of Mr. \\ iahtwick's admirable paper 
says " Thus far shalt thou go und no farllier." We are sorry for 
it but ** 't is true, and pity 't is, 't is true,** for, imless we could 
present to our readers liis pictorial exaujples, any attempt to fol- 
low his remarks would be nugatory. 

On this evening the Athenaeum was filled to overflowing, many 
anxious hearers could barely find sUuiding room. 

Novembf.r 27tii. — JM. Luce's Lecture on French Literature. 

Having jnenjised that the design of his paper would be to 
trace the present language of France from its origin, through its 
various changes, touching also upon some collateral topics, Mr. 
Luce observed that Celtic was the original language of Gaul, but 
as the Druids prohibited writing, there are no existing remains of 
it. Subsequently to the subjection of Ciaul, by Caesar, Latin 
became the ordinary language, in consequence of the Romans 
using every effort to eradicate the Celtic tongue, and substitute 
their own. liven the Britons though they long had struggled 
against Roman power, were at last induced to study Latin elo- 
quence. Tacitus says — 

** Ita ut qui linguain abnuebant eloquentiam mox concupiacerent." 

An instance of tlie high cultivation of Latin in Gaul may be 
found in a line of Juvenal — 

" Gallia causidicoB docuit facunJa Britannos." 

Writer^^ of great celebrity in (7aul were not numerous : but 
there may be mentioned P. T. Varro, poet and historian, born 

!>L\\M0t3ril LNiTllLllON. 47 

near Narbonne ; Trogus Pcmpeius, historian, bom near Vaison, 
40 — 50. B. C; Eutropius, historian, born near Bordeaux, 
towards the end oft'ie third century * 

Besides military conquest, there was another means by which the 
Roman language was diffused in Gaul, viz., through the medium 
of the teachers of the Chiistian reii^iou, as Latin was the only 
language of its preachers in the VV est. In the 5th century Rome 
was unable to protect (kiuI any lonuer from the incursions of the 
German tribes, but tlie latter coulrl uoi obliterate the civilization 
imported by the Homans, nor could tiiey substilate their own 
language tor tiie Latin, wliicli had supplanted the Celtic ; circum- 
stances \Ayic\i were attributa])ie to the hiiih civilization of the Ro- 
nians, and the barbaiism of the (Termans. 

'1 he lecturer showed that two causes of the corruption of the 
Latin language, were tlie preaching of the Gospel, whiv;h diffused 
it, and subsequently tiie invasion of the barbarians. A third 
cause was to be found in the language itself, whicii, from its 
delicate and complex structure, was acquired with difficulty by 
the Romans, and would of course be far more difficult to be 
acquired by foreigners; they ahso in their endeavours to master 
it would most surely deteriorate it by suiting it to their own 
necessities, and introducing their own native words and idioms; 
in this opinion the lecturer was borne out by Schlegel. 

In this way the Latin language was corrupted by the Gauls, 
and in the 7th and 8th centuries the confusion must have been 
incredible; the terminations of verbs and nouns were forgotten, 
and in the records which remain of that period the words seem to 
be placed at random, prepositions were made to serve for the for- 
gotten terminations of nouns, and the auxiliaries habere and esse 
were substituted for the lost inflexions of verbs ; and, in order to 
distinguish gender and number, they found an article and from 
Ille made Le. Thus was formed in France, from the Latin, a 
popular idiom called Roman vulgaire, the remains of it [842. 
A. D.] strongly resemble the Proven9al of the 11th century. 

In the 11th century the Roman branched into two dialects- 
Roman Provencal and Roman Wallon, as different as the men 
who made use of them. The lecturer proceeded to give an ac- 
count of some of the productions in these two dialects, beginning 
with the songs of troubadours. 


He observed that in the middle ages there were two sorts of 
civilization, one which subsisted on religious contemplation, 
another which was the civilization of mirth and excitement, in 
which the troubadours were the agents. This latter civilization 
obtained in the south of France, towards the end of the 9ji cen- 
tury, from its being more peaceful and better governed than the 

* Vossiu'? says of Evitropius — "cum auctor breviarii, Constantin; ejusque 
Ijberorum, Juliani, Joviani et Valentis temporibus vixerit." Ed. 


north parts; the natives also were influenced by the Spaniards, 
who were much civilized, and had acquired something oithe 
brilliancy and e^allantry of the Moors; feudalism was much so t- 
ened in this climate: the counts of Provenye and Barcelona held 
courts, where the nobles of the neighl)ourhood composed verses, 
offered them to the ladies, and discussed their merits themselves. 
This Gaye Science was inspirited by the martial feeling of the 
times, when displayed in wars, not long nor dangerous — such 
would have quenched it. 

Troubadours were sometimes men of high rank, there were 
also some who had raised theuiselves from a low condition by 
their genius for poetry and singing — even those who attended 
the troubadours to sing their verses for them, and to throw 
somersets themselves, by way of interlude, sometimes attained 
the dignity of their masters. It happened also, on occasions, 
that a troubndour, for the commission of unfashionable sins^ was 
reduced to the condition of an attendant only. From the circum- 
stances of troubadours arising out of all classes of society, their 
])oetical compositions would necessarily differ; these poems 
formed a new era in the history of intellect, and many of them 
were vigorous, pathetic, and full of fire, though none were of any 
great length owing to the unsettled vvay of life of the composers. 
Provence, Catalonia, and northern Italy, produced more t!u»n a 
hundred poets, celebrated in their time, immense collections of 
their works have been made; hovC; \N'ar, and KeliKion, were by 
turns sources of inspiration ; and the forms employed were the 
Chanson Complainte, Sirvente lai and Tenson. During the 
time of the crusades, the songs ot the troubadours had a great 
effect in inspiring tliose who loved military glory, to seek it, and 
honorable martyrdom in Palestine. 

Richard 1st of England loved the songs of the troubadours, 
and was discovered in his captivity, by the troubadour Hlondel, 
who sang at the foot of the fortress, part of a ditty which was 
finished by the Monarch within. 

In order to give a clearer view of the troubadour life, the 
lecturer went into some details concerning Bertram de Born, a 
lord poet and warrior, who lived in martial and stirring times; 
his compositions were alluded to and highly eulogised. 

The crusade which was preached in the north of France [1208 
— 1224. A. D.] against Raymond VI., and the Albigenses, threw 
a horde of savage warriors over the beautiful climes of the south; 
and the sanguinary contests which followed, almost annihilated 
troubadours and the gaye science; their last songs were pregnant 
with regret, revenge, and reproach. 

The lecturer then proceeded to the Roman VVallon. 

To be continued. 








No. 26.] Price Sixpence. [Vol. V. 



The Cheese wring, (which was described in our last 
number) St. Cleer's well and church, the Trethevy 
cromlech, the cross on Caraton down, the Hurlers, 
and Duniert's monument lie within the compass of 
a morning's walk from Liskeard. 

The village of St. Cleer is situated about two miles 
north of Liskeard, on the north side of a wild down, 
which* is strewn with enormous masses of granite. 
The village has nothing picturesque about it, unless 
extreme filthiness can claim acquaintanceship there- 
with. The church is a substantial edifice, built of 
granite, which seems to be abundant in the immediate 
neighbourhood ; it had an entrance on the north 
side, under a Saxon arch, the entrance is now built 
up, but the arch remains in good preservation. St. 
Cleer's Well is a picturesque ruin : one side of it 
only remains, luxuriantly clothed with ivy; in this 
side are two niches, wherein probably were placed 
images of those patron saints whose holiness was 
unable to preserve the structure from the pious spoli- 
ation of protestant reformers. From the ruins which 
are scattered around one may judge that the well 
was arched on three sides, and surrounded by an 
iron railing : some of the stones have been removed, 
and are now perhaps doing duty as door posts to 

VOL. v. — 1835. G 


some neighbouring pig bouse, but the incumbent 
has given directions that none are to be taken away 
for the future. St. Cleer's cross, as will be seen by 
the engraving, is near the well ; it consists of one 
piece of granite, which is morticed into a cylindrical 
pedestal of the same sort of stone : until lately it 
was almost wholly hidden by an accumulation of 
rubbish around it ; this has been removed with relig- 
ious care by the sexton of the church, who has made 
use of it in constructing the walls of his house, which 
is to be seen in the left of the cut. At present the 
house consists of one story, but its owner informed 
us that he had so contrived it as to be enabled to 
remove the roof and add another story, at any time, 
without much trouble ; and this he said he intended 
to do, God willing, in a few years, when his family 
had become so numerous as to require additional 
apartments ; he also showed us a pen and ink sketch 
of his proposed alteration, which has been faithfully 
followed in the engraving. 

At Saint Cleer we would not be amiss 
to procure a guide ; and, in endeavouring to do so, 
stumbled upon the village schoolmaster, wIk) was 
busied amongst a numerous and mixed flock of boys 
and girls : this we felt assured was a most fortunate 
accident, and would enable us to select the most 
intelligent of his disciples for a companion. The 
pedagogue, however, had the interest of his pupils 
so much at heart, and considered their time of such 
value, that neither love nor money could prevail upon 
him to lend us one of them for the morning. Indeed 
he seemed to look upon us with a vast deal of sus- 
picion, and no doubt thought we were upon a 
Burking expedition. When we had proceeded about 
a hundred yards from the village, we met a young 
fellow of about fourteen, covered with a white smock 
frock, and decorated with an old clerical hat, which 
was a prodigious deal too large for his head ; this he 
informed us was a present which he had received 
from " Master Jope, the parson ;" and, to prevent it 


from completely enveloping his head, he carried in 
it a bason containing his dinner, as his home was 
some distance from the school : at other times a 
packet of hay answered the purpose ; and, to prevent 
the wind from blowing it away, it had a pad in front 
which hung over his forehead like a small pillow, 
and gave him a most grotesque appearance. 

After some parleying, we prevailed on this promis- 
ing rustic to play the truant; and, for the consider- 
ation of a shilling, to pilot us to the Cheesewring ; 
giving him a promise that, on our return, we would 
make his peace with the schoolmaster. To the 
latter point he seemed quite indifferent, and told us 
that he had " thrashed the master about a year ago, 
for going to birch him, and he would n't mind doing 
it again ." Though this young fellow possessed the 
bones and flesh of a bullock, and was shod hke a 
London dray horse, he scampered before us as lightly 
as a Mercury. His knowledge of distance did not 
seem much improved by school training; for he 
assured us that the Cheesewring was not more than 
a mile and a half from St. Cleer, though we had 
been informed at Liskeard that the distance was 
four miles at least. It is however fair to say that 
he did not seem to be singular in this matter, for, 



having left St. Cleer about three quarters of a mile 
behind us, we were informed by a man who was 
driving cows that Cheesewring hill was only " about 
a half a mile farder on ; '* this was consolation : but 
having advanced a full mile farther, we were told 
by an intelligent peat cutter that the Cheesewring 
was "two mile and a half over the moors. 


The Trethevy cromlech is situated to the north 
east of St. Cleer, and may be distinctly seen from 
the higher parts of the village, appearing like a small 
barn ; a paved lane leads nearly all the way to it, 
and this lane, having high banks and hedges, effec- 
tually shuts it out from sight until it bursts at once 
upon the eye, a gigantic and sublime monument of 
Druidical religion. Antiquarians have usually con- 
sidered such erections as sepulchral monuments, but 
of late others are inclined to think that they were 
temples, used for the performance of certain sacred 

About midway between this cromlech and the 
Cheesewring, on the wide waste of Caraton down, 
stands a lone granite cross. It consists of a single 
block, standing upwards of nine feet above the 
ground, with a rounded head, bearing the couped 
cross. This solitary pillar, evidently a Christian 


monument, is situated near a Druidical temple called 
the Hurlers. Crosses of this shape abound in Corn- 
wall. One has been found in Burian churchyard, 
and another in CaUino^ton churchyard, bearing rude 
sculptures of the crucifixion ; others have been found 
in the county with holes perforated near the top, and 
some with various ornaments on the shafts. 

The Hurlers lie very near to the Cheesewring, 
and consisted of three circles of stones, from three 
feet to six feet above the earth : many of them have 
been taken away, and many others have fallen. At 
some distance from the Hurlers, and near a spring 
of water, are two upright stones, which probably 
had some connexion with the circles. A full account 
of the supposed design of these circles has been 
already given in the Museum, in a paper on the 
Antiquities of Dartmoor, which may be referred to at 
pages 22, 65, and 101), of Volume iv. 

About half a mile west of St. Cleer is a dilapidated 
monument, which we cannot describe better than 
in the words of Borlase : — 

" In the parish of St. Cleer, about 200 paces to 
the eastward of Redgate, are two monumental 
stones, which seem to me parts of two different 
crosses, for they have no such relation to each other 
as to make one conclude that they ever contributed 
to form one monument of that kind. 

" One of them is like the spill of a cross, seven 
feet six inches high, above ground, two feet six 
inches wide, in the under part, but in the above two 
feet, and one foot thick. One side of the shaft is 
adorned with some diaper work, consisting of little 
asterisks of two inches diameter, dispersed in the 
quincunx manner ; the lower or pedestal part is 
somewhat thicker, but has no ornament. In the top 
of this stone there is part of a mortice, which, doubt- 
less, had some tenon fitted to, and fixed in it, in 
such shape as to form a cioss ; but the making this 
mortice seems to have shattered the stone, for part 
of the shaft, is cloven off, and not to be found, |rom 


which defect, this is called the other-half stone : the 
ground about this stone has been much tumbled 
and searched by digging ; and in one of the hollows 
is the other stone. On the top of it was a square 
socket, very regularly sunk, the sides and top well 
smoothed, above which the brim rises into a thin 
edge, that ranged round the whole surface. One 
side is diapered, as in the former stone, and in 
another side (surrounded with a rectangular sulcus) 
is the following inscription, Douiert rogavit pro 
anima. The masonry of this is greatly superior to 
that of the other ; and I apprehend it might be the 
pedestal or plint of a cross, and that the other was 
either placed at the other end of the grave, or was 
erected for some other person about the same age. 
"That by Doniert is meant Dungerth, King of 
Cornwall, about the beginning (or rather middle) of 
the ninth century, drowned in the year 872, or 873, 
cannot be disputed (the G, before an E, being some- 
times pronounced in British as a J, consonant, as 
Georiy a giant), and also because the letters are 
exactly the same with those on a monument in 
Denbighshire, put up by Konken, King of Powis, 
in the very same age. 

" The name is a name of dignity ; and this Doniert 
was not only a prince, but a man of great piety, as 
this solicitude for his soul testifies. 

"Of the person here named there can be no rea- 
sonable dispute, but the meaning of the inscription 
is doubtful. Some think it may signify that Doniert 
gave those lands to some religious pui-pose. Cressy 
had the same information, and calls this * a monu- 
ment very ancient,' with this imperfect inscription, 
^ Doniert gave for the benefit of his soul, namely, 
certain lands : ' * this solicitude,' says the same 
author, * he had in the time of his health, for at his 
death he could not shew it being unfortunately 
drowned ;' but Cressy was misinformed, for he says 
this monument is at Neotstow, or St. Neot's, whereas 
it is three miles and a half distant, in the parish of 


St. Clare. Secondly, the registering such gifts upon 
stone is unusual, and, I believe, in that age, among 
the Britains, without precedent : besides, the make 
of this stone evidently shews, that it was part of a 
cross, and why should the grant of lands be inscribed 

on a cross 


" Others have thought that this was a place of 
devotion, and that Doniert usually prayed here for 
the good of his soul, and erected this cross himself, 
being willing that his name and piety should descend 
together, in order, by such an illustrious example, 
to raise the emulation of posterity. But it was very 
uncommon not to say vain, and unbecoming a sin- 
cerely religious man, to record his own acts of piety 
in such a manner ; besides, the word Rogo cannot 
properly signify to pray to God. 

"I rather think that Doniert desired in his life 
time, that a cross might be erected in the place 
where he should be interred, in order to put people 
in mind to pray for his soul. So that this is, in my 
opinion, a sepulchral monument; and, if we take it 
in this sense the word rogavit is proper, and the 
whole inscription intelligible, and according to the 
usage of ancient times. 

" Christians generally placed a cross (about this 
• time) at the beginning of inscriptions ; and, I think, 
part of one (the corner of the stone being here broken 
off) may be seen in this, before the D. When pray- 
ing for the dead came into use, it was a general 
custom (as in the Catholic countries it is at present) 
to intreat all comers to pray for the soul of persons 
buried there ; and that they might, after death, have 
(as they thought) the benefit of frequent prayers, 
sometimes a church or oratory was erected, at other 
times it was only an altar ; sometimes it was a tomb- 
stone, that desired the prayers of the reader; and 
sometimes a real cross of stone ; and all these memo- 
rials were said to be erected pro anima, for the good ' 
of their souls, because their intent was to excite the 
devotion of persons that passed by, in favour of the 


" When these memorials were erected by persons 
in their life time, there was generally inscribed 
Posuit, or Poni curavit ; but most commonly they 
were erected either by the command, or at the desire, 
of the person departed. When by the command or 
order of the deceased, the word Jussit was made use 
of ; when at the desire, Rogavit, 

" That the ancients erected crosses in the middle 
ages of Christianity, we have an instance in the 
inscription near Neath in Glamorganshire , in the 
church-yard of Lan Iltud vawr, where there are two 
stones as here, one inscribed, and one not. That 
not inscribed, is about the height of our Other-half 
stone ; the other stone was part of a cross, very 
likely the pedestal, and one of its sides has this 
inscription Samson posuit hanc crucem pro anima 
ejus. Now the meaning of this inscription is (as is 
observed in Camden), that one Samson erected this 
cross for his soul, that is, that prayers might be said 
at this cross for the good of his soul. 

" That people desired the erection of such monu- 
ments for their souls, and that Rogavit was the 
word used upon such occasions ; we find an instance 
in Godwyn's catalogue of the Bishops of Landaff, 
where, speaking of Theodoric King of Glamorgan- 
shire's last battle against the Saxons, in which he 
was mortally wounded he has these words, * Having 
received a wound in the head which he knew to be 
mortal, he hastened back into his own country, that 
he might expire among his friends and relations, 
first desiring his son (Rogato priusjilio) to build a 
church on that spot where he should breathe his 
last (in case he should die on the road), and bury 
him also there.' Here we see the dying Theodoric 
only desired the monumental church, and therefore 
it was not Jusso, but Rogato Jitio ; and, in the case 
before us, I conjecture, that Doniert requested, and 
did not command ; that this cross should be erected, 
and prayers said there for the good of his soul, and 
therefore it is Rogavit y and not Jussit.^' 


• " he was a nice young man, 

A carpenter by trade." — Comic Song. 

Having, in my last sketch, treated upon the subject 
of architectural amateurship, I would now allude to 
that peculiar branch of architectural practice, which 
is carried on by a large body of well-meaning ope- 
rators, equally remote from those who profess a 
classic acquaintance with the Art, and from others 
who practise it agreeably to classic rules. That the 
operations of this body should meet with encourage- 
ment is not strange, when it is considered, that, in 
consideration of employing their own labour and 
materials in the erection of a house, they afford 
gratuitously all the necessary designs and drawings, 
which, if provided by the mere arcliitect, would add 
five per cent, to the cost of the works. Educated 
in the carpenter's shop, they acquire certain habits 
of constructive neatness, and the use of the square 
and compasses. Employed in the execution of some 
building from an architect's drawing, they learn the 
nature of plans, elevations, and sections ; and they 
possibly^>«*sA themselves by a perusal of Nicholson's 
Classic Joinery, by which means are generated 
certain incoherent ideas of things Grecian, Roman, 
and Gothic, and corresponding aspirings towards 
their realization in Memel deal and Parker's cement. 
Thus qualified, they soon meet with opportunities 
for a display of their talent in design ; for, though 
there be few who think good taste worth paying for, 
there are many who choose bad taste gratuitously 
afforded, before no taste at all. Under this influence 
flourishes the suburban architecture — not of London 
only— but of all the larger towns of England. 
" Camomile Cottage " exhibits its frieze of Greek 
honeysuckles, leaving us to comment on the Jitness 
of the decoration. Similar reflections are also made 
on seeing the Sarcophagi which decorate " Hygeia 
Terrace;" and we pay just tribute to the poetic 
VOL. V. — 1835. H 


genius which typifies the purposes of a Gin-shop, 
by a series of classic vases surmounting a tottering 
balustrade. Here, we see a Gothic cot, with its 
embattled parapet and chimney tops ! There, the 
important patron of a Putney villa, knocking his hat 
against the architrave of his Doric portico, and con- 
trasting his " fair round belly with good capon lin'd," 
with a couple of poor little half-starved wooden 
columns, shining with white paint, and creaking 
under the weight of his wife's flower pots on the 
lead flat above. 

On the banks of some parish streamlet, tributary 
to the Paddington Canal, rises "Priory House;" 
— a " Priory," because of its pointed windows and 
octagonal turrets, — a " house" because of the smoke, 
which, issuing from the tops of those turrets, shows 
them to be no more nor less than chimnies. By 
means of blue, red, and yellow glass, a monastic 
gloom is thrown over the little parlour within, poet- 
ically qualifying the jolhty of the inmate, as he sits 
with pipe in one hand and a jug in the other. Some- 
times, it would appear that the architect's mind had 
exerted its imaginings under the influence of feudal 
inspiration. Required to design and erect a " suitable 
building" for Miss RadclifFe's " Young Ladies' Sem- 
inary," he is forthwith reminded of his patroness' 
namesake, the fearful Ann ! and he goes to work 
with the " Mysteries of Udolpho" in one eye, and 
Warwick Castle in the other. Knowing the tendency 
of young ladies to run away from school, he resolves 
on putting them into a fortress, and wisely advan- 
tages his purpose by choosing a site whose peninsula 
form is protected by the circumfluence of a district 
sewer. On the isthmus rises a frowning portal to 
complete the impregnability of the Seminary; and 
thus he secures needle- work and literature from the 
besiegings of truantism or love. 

And, after all, what is to be said of this? Is it 
a matter to be serious or jocose upon ? Amiable let 
lis be at all events ; and merry, if possible. Buries- 


ques are amusing in the extreme ; and why should 
they be less amusing from the fact of their being 
unintentional ? A few architects are cheated out of 
their commission : — but what of that ? They are not 
wantonly cheated : and, they, of all men, are best 
qualified to enjoy the sport of the thing. A spectator, 
ignorant of the right use of the limbs, and uninitiated 
in the graces of attitude, would derive no pleasure 
from the antics of Astley's clown. He, thinking it 
all right, would either pass the extravagance over as 
a piece of insipid propriety, or would calmly eulogise 
it as a mere sample of active motion. Oh ! did he 
but know, under help of education, the fun of the 
matter ! Could he but contrast the gravity of 
supposed well-doing with the drollery of the actual 
thing done. The joke of Tom Thumb and Chro- 
nonhotonthologos would be much increased by a 
belief that they had been intended for serious tragedy 
by their authors. It is the true disciple of ^schylus 
and Shakspeare, who would most enjoy that fact. 
To a woman of real fashion, what is more entertaining 
than the affected air of some retired cit's wife, whose 
wealth renders her a victim to ridicule while shie 
fancies herself the admired of all observers. The 
drama has its farce ; — why not the Arts ? To require 
that the farce of architecture should be intentional 
would be absurd : — if it be required at all, it can 
only be expected from the serious efforts of pretending 
ignorance ; and the sterling merit of the circumstance 
is simply this, that both parties, both laugher and 
laughee, are honestly entertained ; the latter, under 
a grave sense of his importance, and the former as 
truly appreciating the humour of that gravity. 

The stickler to attic propriety would say thus : — 
" Let no man emulate the honors of a Greek portico, 
who cannot aifbrd to make it so high, as that he may 
pass under it without endangering the crown of his 
hat, or the aspiring ribbands of his wife's bonnet: 
nor let him ever dream that his Doric columns will 
answer in effect, while the circumference oi' their 
bodies is exceeded by the rotundity of his own.'' V 


Oh ! say not so. The enforcement of such a law 
would leave us nothing to laugh at. The constant 
contemplation of Parthenons and York Minsters 
would make us particular and rigid in our tastes. 
We should all stiffen into Cari/atides, or sit " like 
our grandsires, cut in alabaster." 

At all events — if these drolleries are found to be 
bad in principle, let not the operative party be 
attacked. If the carpenter be allowed opportunities 
for exercising the art of design, as well as that of 
joinery, he only does as most of us would do in the 
same situation. As long as he, with a very little 
taste, has yet more than his employer, can we wonder 
at the patronage he receives ? While the members 
of our Universities remain ignorant of the common 
principles of Art, can we be surprised at the thriving 
condition of quackery ? It is not the cunning of the 
carpenter, but the apathy of the carpentered that is 
culpable. While there are no professors at Oxford 
and Cambridge, we must expect the assumption of 
professorship m the builder's shop. 

I am curious to know the professed purpose of 
the Architectural Society just established in Exeter 
Hall. To say the least, it must be desirable as a 
conversazione ; agreeable and instructive to real pro- 
fessors: but, if its members be wholly professional, 
its good effects will be limited. Nothing in the least 
depreciatory is intended to it, as a society per se ; 
but, as far as the great cause of Art is concerned, we 
want — not a congregation of architects, but an archi- 
tect with a congregation. Perhaps in a forthcoming 
number of the Magazine of the Fine Arts, we shall 
be informed as to its constitution : whether it is to 
be regarded, as " a lodge in some vast wilderness," 
wherein we seek for that true appreciation, which 
the barren world around has failed to afford : or 
whether we are to support it as the centre of an 
expansive system, which is to be governed by its 
attraction, and illumined by its radiance. 

The political importance of this kingdom has flour- 
ished — not in the peculiar talents of our statesmen 


— but in that regard for political economy which 
has pervaded the more enlightened of our gentr5^ 
When the science becomes more thoroughly known 
to them, and pervading also among all classes, then 
will England's importance become still more impor- 
tant. So is it with the Arts. The enlightenment of 
the general pubHc is the measure required ; and, to 
this end, we may hope, that, for every architect in 
the Architectural Society, we may have a hundred 
educated gentlemen. These remarks are of course 
directed to those who cannot enjoy the mirth of that 
quackery to which the former part of this sketch 
alluded. There may be some who would grieve to 
find out, when too late, the ridiculous aspect of the 
houses they have built, or the pictures they have 
purchased. ^* Where ignorance is bliss, 't is folly, 
&c." — the proverb is somewhat musty. There may 
be others, who would become bitter under the dis- 
covery ; and then, in Christian charity, we should be 
obliged to withhold our laughter. Awakened to a 
sense, that they are living — not in houses — but in 
cabinets — they would fret under the idea, that they 
themselves might be regarded as curiosities ! 

Gently, then, let any desired reform be brought 
about. Do not at once, deprive the mistaken of 
their happiness, and the informed of their food for 
mirth — If the regular architect get into universal 
favor, the nation will become severely dignified. We 
shall possibly make our neighbours stare with admi- 
ration ; but " Laughter " will no longer " hold both 
her sides " in merry England. 




Rally ! Let their hot ranks know 
They have found a Parthian foe — 
And our deep mouthed clarions ring 
On — for England and her king. 

On ! The flashing sabre's stroke 
Lights us through the battle's smoke : — 
Spears are gleaming at each breast. 
Falchions redden on each crest ; 
And our every petronel 
Works its bidding deadly well. 

Thou hast found a troubled bier, 
'Neath our hoofs, brave cuirassier ! 
Long must wait thy gentle mate — 
Spinning at her cottage gate, 
With thy first-born on her knee- 
Wait for Love's return and thee. 
, Is thy orphan child more dear 
Widow of the cuirassier ? 

Kings have read it, serfs can vouch 
Honour is a gory couch. 
Kings, the pageant and the hearse, 
And the herald with his verse; 
And ^e anthem and the priest 
Lay in consecrated rest* 
Where the battle's lost and won, 
While the war dust hides the sun ; 
Sounds the volley ; rings the steel ; 
Lances glitter; squadrons wheel — 
All their death work madly urge ; 
There is heard the Soldier's dirge. 


Why doth the traveller linger yet? 

Why shun to pass over the moor ? 
The moon is up, though the sun be set 

That should light him to his door. 

There 's nothing to fear from the Will o* wisp, — 

No harm, though the sheep-dog bays, 
■ And the low dull sound and the light on the ground 
Draw his steps to the four cross ways. 

But pray for the lady buried there ; 

She sleeps on the lonely wild, 
And might not lie with the good who die 

Though the coroner w^as her child. 

They have made her a grave in unhallowed ground, 
And Heaven ! how it makes one quake, 

To see, instead of the stone at her head, 
On her bosom the rifted stake. 


Continued from page 24. 

*^Mrs. Allington," her husband answered gravely, " it is long 
since I ventured to have a voice in such matters. You may still 
do, as I believe you will own you have ever done, pretty much 
as you like, respecting your own amusements ; but I must be 
permitted at least a remark, when I see my girls put into disad- 
vantageous positions, and made to form indiscreet intimacies. 
In the first place, you must know I have no particular fondness 
for your pic nics, Mrs. Allington ; they are generally (forgive me) 
apt to be composed of good, bad, and indifferent, which you will 
allow to be odds, my dear, of just two to one in favor of not 
very desirable society. (Be kind enough, my love, to hear me 
out.) They generally end in a romp; and I have as yet never 
seen any remarkable advantage accrue from the practice of romping 
among grown people. (One word more, and I have done.) I 
think that you said your new acquaintance, Mrs. Eglantine, was 
to have the direction of your party." 

64 A PIC NIC. 

"Well! '^ said Mrs. Allington, "now you have done." 

" No, I have n't." 

"Yes, you have; and now hear my reply. As for romping, 
oh, Mr. A., how often have I been obliged to tell you, you know 
nothing at all about it; and as for my new acquaintance, as you 
choose to call Mrs. Eglantine, she happens to be my very dear 
friend; a young, innocent, interesting, unprotected widow, whose 
situation is singularly romantic. A husband, whom she adored, 
left her, for his health, to travel in Italy. He was taken by 
banditti, robbed and murdered — poor little sufferer ! she looks 
up to me for direction. Indeed, my chief object in giving a party 
at all, next to showing my own girls, is to find some amusement 
for that dear little woman who never means to take off her mourning 
(how well she looks in it !), and, if she had her own way, would 
shut herself up for the rest of her life. She is too young to do it, 
Mr. A ." 

" Nor does she do it, Mrs. A. All the officers from the barracks 
at B. go tame about her house. There is the German colonel, 
Baron Oldmansogle, with the white whiskers, and the red-headed 
Irish riding-master, Macgillycuddy, with the black whiskers, and 
bald Lieutenant Coot, with the false whiskers, and Cornet 
Macassar, with the little whisker on his under-lip, and Comet 
Rosebud, with no whiskers at all, and there is " 

"Poor, dear, little, injured, disconsolate creature!" whined 
Mrs. Allington, in interruption of the muster-roll. " Oh, Mr. A., 
you know not your own ingratitude ; she does that merely to 
oblige you and me — (as for those pretty, pretty moustaches, by 
the way, I can only vow and protest I hope we may never have a 
king of this country whp will have the barbarity to cut them off, 
and make those dear officers look like mere Englishmen.) Her 
house is one of the few where our girls can make a new acquain- 
tance, and for their sakes she does admit these pleasing persons 
of a morning." 

" She admits that dissapated boy of a lord of an evening," 
said Mr. Allington, drily. 

" She does," returned the lady ; " but, as you say, he is but a 
boy. She protects the poor young man ; she sees him entering 
an evil world exposed to temptations: she makes him occupy 
his time; she gives him good advice ; she gives him good books : 
he is safe when at Eglantine Bower. And, to tell you the 
honest truth (but do not compromise us), she and I think he will 
do for our Adey. And now you have the whole secret : I am to 

A PIC NIC. 65 

give a pic nic. Mrs. Eglantine will bring Lord D., and you 
must ask the other officers from B. barracks." 

" I '11 see B. barracks and all the officers at the " 

"For shame, for shame, Mr. A. ! " interrupted his helpmate. 

" I '11 be hanged first ! " proceeded honest John, out of all 
patience ; and his helpmate was silent ; " and I '11 write by this 
day's post to Lord D.'s guardians ; and I '11 tell them what I 
think of the widow Eglantine ; and I '11 speak with my dear 
Adey my own self," — and slap went the door. 

" Stop, stop ! " roared his helpmate ; but her far better half 
was far beyond her voice, or deaf to it. " Go, then," continued 
she, " for an old obstinate fool, with your stupid, troublesome 
honesty. I 'm not afraid. The guardians are both abroad : 
France — Italy. — My pic nic ; — I '11 hurry it. — Sir James Burton 
— not married yet ! — here — Adey! — Maria ! — where are you? — 
^ Get some pink note-paper and blue sealing-wax directly — out of 
the perfumed case, — and come to my boudoir to write invitations." 

And so the pic nic was launched. And there 's the first half 
of my story. I have an invincible repugnance to a long story, and 
therefore I have given a long dialogue, which tells the story 
rather more glibly than I could have done. But what remains 
must needs be narrated in the style called the pure historical; — 
heaven help me ! 

Now might it not be reasonable to conclude that the good man's 
objections were treated with a little respect in the course of the 
arrangements — that the widow and the young lord, at least, and 
perhaps a few of the officers from B. barracks were surrendered, 
however reluctantly, as a peace-offering to the master of the 
feast ? Not a bit of it. Mrs. AUington was one of those strong- 
minded ladies who act on principle, and who owe it to their 
consciences and to themselves (and very punctual they are in 
those payments), to do to the full all that their strong minds tell 
them ought to be done, at no matter what sacrifice of others* 
feelings, to mark their discountenance of opinions they disapprove. 
So the invitations were sent, and accepted. Few could refuse 
Mrs. AUington. Mrs. Eglantine was consulted daily, hourly; 
Adelaide was sent backwards and forwards with hints and 
suggestions; and, on more than one occasion, it was voted a 
wonder by the widow that Miss AUington had been allowed to 
walk alone from AUington Park to Eglantine Bower, and so 
Lord D. walked back with her from Eglantine Bower to AUington 
Park. I saw the whole game. I watched Mrs. Allingiou with 
VOL. v.— 1835. I 

6'6 A PU NIC. 

all the keenness of deep dislike, and vowed the discomfiture of 
her. My own conscience had been seared from the moment at 
which I heard her confess the countless meannesses she had 
been guilty of, aggravated, perhaps, in my estimation, by the 
seduction she had practised upon tlie virtue of my confidential 
Swiss, and by the punishment she had inflicted upon my vice of 
listening, and I now resolved upon setting my wits fairly against 
hers. Fairly, did I say ? — No ! By all means, fair, and the 
reverse. To abet in whatever could annoy and expose her ; to 
listen and peep wherever an occasion should present itself, and 
even to betray her without ruth or remorse, should it ever happen 
to suit my convenience. It is astonishing to one who has ever 
made it his amiable occupation, how short a time will acquaint 
one with all the whites and blacks of a vain and ambitious heart, 
and with the game which skilful players, who have a stake in it, 
may play, for their own advantage or amusement, on that che- 
quered board. Vain and ambitious was the heart of Mrs. 
Allington, and a verj- few days' private practice enabled me to 
thoroughly dissect, anatomize, and lecture upon, it. Thought, 
design, suspicion, all, all were laid bare to me, before she, in 
whom they rose, sunk, and rankled, was aware of even their 
existence. I had little leisure to speculate upon the acts of the rest 
of the family, or to resolve them to their hidden motives. Yet I 
was angry with Adelaide. Her heart had suddenly become to 
me a sealed book ; and (hang it !) as is the case with many wiser 
men in greater affairs, I mystified myself by looking too deep for 
what I have since had reason to believe lay very much on the 
surface. She seemed to allow herself to be played upon in ways 
which to me, who knew her good sense, and, above all, who 
knew her large share of that on which all good sense is founded, 
good feeling, were quite unintelligible. Her good humour was 
impenetrable. She smiled without distinction or measure on all 
the world; even on young Lord D. But I was absolutely mad 
with honest John. There he sat in his great leathern chair, with 
his younger children crowding round him and climbing over him, 
amusing himself with their babble, and seemingly deaf and blind 
16 all the politics of his indefatigable wife, and of Lord D., who 
flirted with his daughter before his very face, and of the widow 
Eglantine, who came every day to dinner. A stranger, who 
knew nothing about it, would have said, " How Mr. Allington 
does enjoy Mrs. Allington's preparations for one of her delightful 
pic nics ! " 

A PIC NIC. 67 

And so the day arrived on which Mrs. Allington was to make 
her grand display of hospitality, taste, and daughters. The morn- 
ing was fine, " the day unclouded, the earth all verdure, and the 
sky all song," as Sir Naniby Pamby improvised, who had occu- 
pied himself through a whole wet St. Swithin's in composing this 
delicious sentence. In short, "had Mrs. Allington selected it 
out of all the days of the year," as old Mrs. Emery laboured to 
tell her, whose trade it was to brighten all things, " she could not 
have made a more favourable choice.'^ The same laudatory lady 
was heard to declare — "That Mrs. Allington was the most 
fortunate of women ; not only in having the finest days for her 
parties (although that alone was a great blessing), but in every- 
thing. She had the best and easiest husband in the world, and 
nobody's daughters were so popular; she was sure to get rid of 
them. All she undertook succeeded to her utmost wish. Who 
but Mrs. Allington, in that scanty neighbourhood, could have 
assembled so many people ? and such good society too ! All 
B. barracks ! and, besides Mr. Wortly the great brewer, and Sir 
Twaddly Maresnest, the colonial judge, she had herself counted 
at one time, five baronets, and two lords, young Lord D., and 
old Lord E. ! " 

Mrs. Allington w^as indeed a lady eminently qualified to give 
effect to the social principle. Happiness, according to Byron, 
was born a twin. Happiness, according to Mrs. Allington, lives 
in an Omnibus. 

The festivities began with an excursion to a very romantic spot, 
only four miles from Allington Park. Here an old ivied castle 
lingered in the last, the longest, and most picturesque stage of 
its being, repaying with its beautiful frowns the lady of Allington, 
who had not failed, by judicious props and repairs, to stay the 
dilapidations of time and wintry weather among her favorite ruins. 
A low rough range, of modern growth, nestled under its walls. 
This was built, in good unobtrusive taste, out of fragments of 
the fallen parts, and clinging, like a faithful nursling to the 
ancient pile, served to buttress with its kindred strength the 
shelter of the parental roof. It formed too rooms. One spacious 
enough for a large party to dine in. The other a sort of boudoir. 
I cannot tell what that was fit for; there was scarcely room for 
more than two persons. A lawn of fine turf was kept short and 
smooth as velvet for dancing ; and, at a small distance, concealed 
by an intervening wood, was a farm-house, which afforded can- 
tonments and picketings for grooms and horses. 

68 A PIC NIC. 

The company had been invited to meet at the ruins by two 
o' clock, there to open the solemnities with a sort of meal, which 
is on the cards of fashionable people expressed by four emphatic 
French words, signifying that one is expected to eat not with 
one's fingers only. ** \\ ar to the knife!" was the memorable 
exclamation of the defenders of Saragossa : *' Breakfast to the 
furk ! " was the no less determined proposal of Mrs. AUington. 
Each lady had provided, as directed, one cold dish ; each gentle- 
man two bottles of wine. Intemperately proportioned feast ! 
Of course all the usual calamities happened, were lamented, and 
straightway subsided into jest. There was a remarkable prepon- 
derance of pigeon pies ; hams were seen, a scarcely less stupendous 
assemblage, pointing at each other through their paper ruffles, 
from one end to the other of the table; "every leaf had a 
tongue," (as a living poet says) ; and there was a ** beggarly 
account," (as an immortal one says), of countervailing chickens. 
Salad, salt, and bread, had been forgotten, and all the wine was 
champaign. But Mrs. AUington had thought of ever)' thing. 
Deficiencies were allowed to appear only as long as they were 
voted a good joke, and presently all were repaired from an 
unexpected depot at the farm ; and honest John's wines had as 
good a flavour, and were in as great variety and plenty, amougst 
the ruins as at his own hospitable board at AUington Park. 

While Mrs. AUington was playing the "most kind hostess" to 
all, all were variously engaged. Many in their own little busi- 
nesses ; more on the little businesses of others. Some speculating 
on the largest and solemnest considerations of county politics; 
many making matches for their neighbours, a few making 
matches for tliemselves. While at a side table, and happy in 
their convivial seclusion, sat the colonial judge, with Mr. Docet 
the tutor and Mr. Proseit the curate, making common cause in 
a reversionary pigeon pie, with the next presentation of a peregaux 
in prospect, and an actual incumbency over three long-necked 
bottles, which stood, unnoticed of the multitude, in a corner. 
Not far off. Doctor Shudderpool, M. D., smit with the horrid 
mysteries of the Regent Street Solar Microscope, and solicitous 
equally for the general health and for his own, was occupied in 
passing through a process of purification the water of a beauteous 
spring which bubbled by, and which came improved from Mr. 
George Robins' smallest-sized patent royal filter, which costs 
but 1/. 5s., and "renders crystal the worst water, at the rate of 
twelve gallons per day." Of the other sex, crouching in an 

A PIC NIC. 69 

ivied window, and single, as she long had lived, sat Lady 
Venena Adderly, compounding pencil notes for a descriptive 
letter to Poet Peeper, who furnished lampoons to a Sunday 
paper. " Memoranda of some of the voted pretty persons. — The 

three Miss S s, crooked in three different ways (deformity 

voted a petite figure.) Miss W. a beard (voted a duvet or shade.) 
And little red Miss T. (voted auburn, and like Jane Shore) runs 
about chattering like a magpie that has finished its education in 
the back yard of an ill-managed boarding school." Thus wrote 
this detestable woman ; for, in my character of overlooker as well 
as overhearer, I stood behind the window at which she drove her 
abominable trade. 

But let us turn to happier parts of the scene. Eating, drinking, 
laughing, syllabubing under the cow, and dancing, occupied the 
time till dusk. Then the whole party adjourned to Allington 
Park, to spend the evening and beguile the niglit, amidst the 
varied charms of tea, music, supper, more dancing, fireworks, 
and moon-Jit rambles. 

And you, Mrs. Allington, you were a prosperous gentlewoman ! 
Every thing went on according to your fondest wish. The 
realities of the present hour, the prospects of an indistinct future, 
all, all were of the rosiest rose-colour. At the dawn of this 
auspicious day your looks had commerced with the opening 
uncertain sky. Hope was then balanced by fear on your careful 
brow. But, when you had thought and rethought, reviewed 
your mines, and in fancy baffled the countermines of the foe, 
and with wonderous skill had placed and ordered every thing 
and every body to your own liking, then^ in your meridian joy, 
did there seem a rivalry between the broad sun and your expanded 
countenance, which should shine the brighter, and spread the 
greater gladness around. 

And Mrs. Eglantine took possession of old Lord E., and gave 
her chaperonage to Adelaide and young Lord D. Miss Carleton, 
whose marriage was fixed for the following day, sent an excuse ; 
but she sent it by the hands of her intended. Sir James Burton, 
who was never known to absent himself from an occasion of 
good eating and drinking. It is important to mention, as it was 
much remarked upon, that, whether out of civility to the hostess, 
or out of pure carelessness, or for some other reason, and many 
were the probable reasons that underwent discussion. Sir James 
Burton did actually offer, and some did say with a significant 
look, his arm for the day to Miss Maria Allington. 

70 A PIC NIC. 

The concerns of the rest of the company were soon arranged, 
and apparently to general satisfaction ; for the majority were 
pleased and who ever cared for the feelings of a minority ? Who 
had leisure to attend to the history of a pouting quiverincr lip, or 
an anxious wandering eye ? I was one, probably of the very 
few, sufficiently disengaged to admit the consciousness that 
such things were. There is a forward communicativeness in Joy 
which ever makes it seen. — It is at once known by its mien from 
every thing but what it is; it looks around for sharers, and 
(thank Heaven !) seldom looks in vain ; while Disappointment 
hangs back from the crowd, is doomed often to be mistaken for 
moroseness or for petulance, and never to find a willing sympa- 
thy. In the rear of even this merry party there were looks, and 
I saw them, which bore no testimony to Mrs. Emery's repeated 
declaration, that " every creature there fnust be pleased and satis- 
fied." Alas ! this was not assented to by the poor, timid, mor- 
tified girl, who, in her desertedness, sees one whom she expected 
(perhaps very tenderly wished) to be her partner, laughing, 
shrieking, and whisking with another; while deep and cankering 
envy of the blue-bodiced rival who has displaced her, and perhaps 
as deep resentment against Mrs. Allington for the thwarting 
officiousness of an ill-timed introduction, now first found entrance 
into her hitherto peaceful bosom. — Ay, now for the first time. 
But who shall say that the malignant passions of such a day will 
cease with the exciting cause ? And who shall say that the home 
of that pensive husband will ever again shine upon him as it did 
before, sad man, with nods, and winks, and becks, he dissented 
from the proposal of his pretty vain wife, to tike a seat in that 
phaeton to Allington Park ? Of small account were nods, and 
winks, and becks, when weighed against such considerations as 
a phaeton, a bearded captain, and his wild horses, acting on a 
mind already heated with waltzing and champaign. And who 
will assert that old Mr. Creeper, whom a rheumatic gout had 
imprisoned at home, really felt the obligations he expressed to 
Mr. H., of the Priory, for his special care of little Mrs. Creeper, 
who was never known to take care of herself .' And small com- 
fort was it to him that Mrs. H., of the Priory, in a fit of what 
might be mistaken for jealousy, bestowed her company, and all 
the smiles she could summon, upon that dissipated wretch Mr. 
G. of the Deanery. 

But let us leave the melancholy minority. lieioumons a 
yious moutons. — " Look at that dear interesting creature ! Look 

A PIC NIC. 71 

at Mrs. Eglantine," said our hostess. " How lovely she is ! 
Whose appearance but hers could stand it in that deep, deep 
mourning ? How kindly she forces her spirits and strength to 
aid to make our little projtt agreeable ! I never can be suffici- 
ently grateful ! '' Mrs. Eglantine did indeed seem to justify 
these praises, and merit this gratitude. There she sat, in weeds ; 
weeds of grace indeed ! Acid who, if that were mourning, could 
ever regret to see the loveliest of that sex in the garb of grief ? it 
looked so like joy. Sweet is the weeping willow, when all its 
long, graceful leaves are laughing and dancing in the brisk and 
buxom breeze, and, in their turn, stooping to sweep into dimples 
the river that flows by. Sweet the sunbeam that glimmers and 
sports through the glades of the cypress grove ; and sweet the 
window of the privileged Jarrin*, where, during the hours of 
divine service, or the season of a more general mourning than 
that of Mrs. Eglantine, between the half-closed shutters, symbols 
at once of interdicted traffic, or of decent woe, is seen the wonted 
display of gewgaws and of sweets — the confectionary, the flowers, 
the alabaster, the mirror, and the plateau. So the widow ; for 
here and there, through a smiling crevice of the sober black, 
might yet be spied the lurking locket and the glittering gem, 
memorials, haply, of him she mourns, but yet which, blending in 
kindest union with some recent tribute from the hand of living 
friendship, say, or seem to say, that bosom is not yet a desert in 
the midst of a world which its mistress is born to enjoy and to 

There she sat, " as ladies wish to be who love their lords,'^ 
placed between two of them, and ministering to each with a 
pretty equal grace ; although I fancied I could read a meaning 
in the glance she, not rarely, cast upon the younger of the two, 
amid his attentions to her inseparable Adelaide AUington. 

To be concluded in the next number. 

* To whom is the shop of Jarrin, prince of confectioners, New Bond Street, 
and to whom are the comely dimensions of Madame Jarrin, at whom a man 
once fired a pistol, through pure love and a pane of glass, unknown ? Of all 
the confectionary wonders ever presented to the eye, the most admirable ever 
seen was that which attracted crowds to Jarrin's window all last winter. A 
billowy sea of sugar, which it scared the stoutest heart to look upon, and a 
boat, and a lighthouse, and a rock, whereupon stood " the noblest work of God, 
an honest man," rather larger than the lighthouse, which I suppose was right, 
but much larger than the boat which brought him there, which I think was 



The following sonnets are extracted from " Castalian 
Hours." We need not apologize to those who have 
read them for their re-appearance here ; — no one who 
has perused them once will fail to welcome them 

Those who now read them for the first time will 
probably be induced to look into the volume from 
which we have taken them. If these sonnets be 
considered as breathing exalted feeling and pure sen- 
timent, we can assure the reader that the remainder 
of the work is not inferior to the little sample now 
before him. 

We allude to " Castalian Hours " with the more 
gratification, as the authoress is one of our many 
Western Worthies. 


" There is no breath of discord in the air; 

No tints, but those of glory, on the sky; — 
It is a summer sunset ! where all fair 

And lovely things before our vision lie ; 

From the half-sliadowed earth — to where on high 
The mingling of all colors, rich and rare, 

And deep or bright, is softening on our eye : 
Who thus can view them, nor beholding share 

The influence of their beauty ? N\'hen the sod, 
With its wild flowers, is sweetest, and the breeze 
Floats like a whispered music through the trees, 

In melody of joy? Oh who hath trod 
Such scene, nor felt his spirit soar from these, 

In silent worship to the Living God ?" 


"Ye places of deep solitude — whereto 
I wander, as the Magian did, who sought 
Majestic Nature's volume, ever fraught 

With power the pondering spirit to renew : 

I too have read those pages bright — I too 
Studied all forms around me, with a thought 
Of fervent contemplation, which hath taught 

Unuttered things, their tablets only do. 


Oh would I might my soul unto ye knit 

For aye, and make its essence as serene 
As ye are, and, where sin-worn visions flit, 

Image a brighter and more potent scene; 
Calming the wearied heart, as soothly it ^ ^- -. 

Should shun the world that, hath its sojourn beenrf*^ bB91 


" There is an inborn beauty in the Mind, 

Which they alone can contemplate, who know 
To read the book of Spirits, and who find 

Delight to mark how thoughts and feelings flow 
O'er the wide waste of life, and on it trace 

Green tracks of freshness, — leaves and buds that grow 
Lovelier than they of Paradise: — Who chase 

Those torrents and wild cataracts, that throw 
Their towery forms to heaven ; — then darkly rest 

Again within their channel, and there lie 
Voiceless and viewless ! for the human breast 

Is as a mighty ocean ; — waves may fly 
O'er its light sparkling surface, and yet deep^ 
. Unseen, unheard, a world beneath them sleep." 


** Ye Stars ! that o'er this solemn midnight glowing. 

Lighten our hearts with your perennial ray ; 
Ye Stars ! on earth, and earth-worn eyes bestowing 

The hallowed joy of your serener day : , 

Glorious ye roll along your wonted way, 
Mighty the place of splendors to ye given, — 

As if ye should indeed our being sway. 
And rule low earth from those deep vaults of heaven. 
Truly might the Chaldean lift his eye, 

And deem that you were gods ! ye first-born lights 
Of the Eternal's word ; who thus on high 

Appointed ye; — the book whose page invites 
Our spirit — still communing with the sky. 

And the dark loveliness of Glory's nights!" 


" Thou fair bright Heaven ! so beautiful above 
This green expanse of wood, and vale, and hill, — 

How can we gaze on your clear depths, yet love 
This low world, and its ways of error still ? 
Plunging our hearts in night, the while we fill 

VOL. V, — 1835. K 


Our eyes with glory? — Can our spirits be 

Worldly, that all impatient of the ill, 
Would grow into thy beauty ; and like thee 

Dispel the cloud and darkness, which the woe, 
And strife, and weakness of our mortal bent. 

Have cast upon us from the things below; 
And change them to a nobler element, 
As thine is, when by no fierce tempest rent. 

In majesty of light thy mansions glow." 


"Haunts of wild beauty, where the glowing Mind 
Drinks deep the fulness of some heavenly sense ; 

Feeling as if amid ye were enshrined 
The awful presence of Omnipotence. 

For ye are they among whose scenes we find 
All faculties absorbed in the immense 
Of mind's dilating powers; still borrowing thence 

A hallowed joy — voiceless and undefined, 
Yet breathing forth from all. Ye can divest 

The soul of ail its earthliness, and raise 

High thoughts and glorious feelings, unexpressed, 
Save in the heart's mute worship; wherein best 

Speaks the enkindled spirit, which our gaze 
Draws ever nearer to the Mightiest." 


" There is a glory on the dark rough hill, 

When the low Sun his setting radiance throws; 
There is a beauty seems wide space to fill, 

When the fair Moon in stainless lustre glows; 

There is a charm in Summer's mossy rose, — 
A music on the gale, and in the rill 

That through its reeds with bubbling whisper flows :— 
There is a grandeur when the clouds unfold, 
And the dread Tempest's voice bursts forth, until 

Man can but listen; while its thunderings rolled 

'Mid the torn skies, arouse the answering Main. 
Oh Earth ! Air ! Ocean ! wherefore should we seek 

Language, save yours ? — The Eternal's glorious fane, 
Where oracles of Heaven around us speak ! " 



My driver was a free man of colour. He gave a 
inghtful account of the treatment to which he and 
all the people of colour, whether free or slaves, are 
subject in this State. He had been accustomed 
' formerly to go every season to the State of New 
York, during the period when, owing to the inhabi- 
tants leaving the city, business was almost at a 
stand ; but, by an act passed a few years ago, it is 
declared that a free person of colour leaving the 
State, though merely crossing the boundary, shall 
not be allowed to return ; and, as he has a wife and 
family, he feels himself really and truly a prisoner in 
the State of South Carolina. The same law declares 
that it shall not be lawful for free persons of colour 
to come from another state into this. If they should 
be brought in a vessel, they are immediately confined 
in gaol, till the vessel is ready to proceed to sea, — 
the captain paying the expenses of their detention. 
It is now contrary to law that even free persons of 
colour should be educated ; — they are incompetent 
witnesses in any case where the rights of w^hite per- 
sons are concerned ; and their trials are conducted 
by a justice of the peace and freeholders, without 
the benefit of a jury. So far as respects the slaves, 
they are even in a worse situation ; for though their 
evidence is in no case admissable against the whites, 
the affirmation of free persons of colour, or their 
fellow-slaves, is received against them. I was 
placed in a situation at Charleston which gave me 
too frequent opportunities of witnessing the effects 
of slavery in its most aggravated state. Mrs. Street 
treated all the servants in the house in the most 
barbarous manner; and this, although she knew 
that Stewart, a hotel-keeper here, had lately nearly 
lost his life by maltreating a slave. Stewart beat 
his cook, who was a stout fellow, until he could no 
longer support it. He rose upon his master, and 


gave him such a beating that it had nearly cost him 
his hfe : the cook immediately left the house, ran 
off, and was never afterwards heard of, — it was 
supposed that he had drowned hmiself. Not a day 
however passed without my hearing of Mrs. Street 
whipping and ill-using her unfortunate slaves. On 
one occasion, when one of the female slaves had 
disobliged her, she beat her until her own strength 
was exhausted, and then insisted on her bar-keeper, 
Mr. Ferguson, proceeding to inflict the remainder of 
the punishment. — Mrs. Street in the meantime took 
his place in the bar-room. She instructed him to 
lay on the whip severely in an adjoining room. His 
nature was repugnant to the execution of the duty 
which was imposed on him. He gave a wink to 
the girl, who understood it and bellowed lustily, 
while he made the whip crack on the walls of the 
room. Mrs. Street expressed herself quite satisfied 
with the way in which Ferguson had executed her 
instructions ; but unfortunately for him, his lenity 
to the girl became known in the house, and the 
subject of merriment, and was one of the reasons for 
his dismissal before I left the house ; but I did not 
know of the most atrocious of all the proceedings 
of this cruel woman until the very day that I quitted 
it. I had put up my clothes in my portmanteau, 
when I was about to set out, but finding it was 
rather too full, I had difficulty in getting it closed to 
allow me to lock it ; I therefore told one of the boys 
to send me one of the stoutest of the men to assist 
me. A great robust fellow soon afterwards appeared 
whom I found to be the cook, with tears in his eyes ; 
I asked him what was the matter? He told me 
that, just at the time when the boy called for him, 
he had got so sharp a blow on the cheek bone, from 
this devil in petticoats, as had unmanned him for 
the moment. Upon my expressing commiseration 
for him, he said he viewed this as nothing, but that 
he was leading a life of terrible suffefing ; — that 
about two years had elapsed since he and his wife, 


with his too children, had been exposed in the 
public market at Charleston for sale, — that he had 
been purchased by Mr. Street, — that his wife and 
children had been purchased by a different person ; 
and that, though he was living in tlie same town 
with them, he was never allowed to see them, — he 
would be beaten within an ace of his life if he ven- 
tured to go to the corner of the street. 

Whenever the least symptom of rebellion or in- 
subordination appears at Charleston on the part of a 
slave, the master sends the slave to the gaol, where, 
for a trifling douceur to the gaoler or his assistants, 
he is whipped or beaten as the master desires. The 
Duke of Saxe Weimar, in his travels, mentions that 
he visited the gaol in December, 1825; that the 
" black overseers go about everywhere armed with 
cow-hides ; that in the basement story there is an 
apparatus upon which the negroes, by order of the 
police, or at the request of the masters, are flogged ; 
that the machine consists of a sort of crane, on which 
a cord with too nooses runs over pulleys ; the nooses 
are made fast to the hands of the slave and drawn 
up, while the feet are bound tight to a plank ; that 
the body is stretched out as much as possible, — and 
thus the miserable creature receives the exact number 
of lashes as counted off. The pubhc sale of slaves 
in the market-place at Charleston occurs frequently. 
I was present at two sales, where, especially at one 
of them, the miserable creatures were in tears on 
account of their being separated from their relations 
and friends. At one of them, a young woman of 
sixteen or seventeen was separated from her father 
and mother, and all her relations, and every one she 
had formerly known. This not unfrequently hap- 
pens, although I was told and believe that there is a 
general wish to keep relations together, where it can 
be done.'' 

The following extract of a letter from a gentleman 
at Charleston, to a friend of his at New York, 
contains even a more shocking account of the public 


sales of slaves here. — " Curiosity sometimes leads 
me to the auction sales 9f the negroes. A few days 
since I attended one which exhibited the beauties of 
slavery in all their sickening deformity. The bodies 
of these wretched beings were placed upright on a 
table, — their physical proportions examined, — their 
defects and beauties noted. — ' A prime lot, here they 
go ! ' There I saw the father looking sullen con- 
tempt upon the crowd, and expressing an indignation 
in his countenance that he dared not speak ; — and 
the mother, pressing her infants closer to her bosom 
with an involuntary srasp, and exclaiming, in wild 
and simple earnestness, while the tears chased down 
her cheeks in quick succession, ' I can't leff my 
children ! I won't leff my children ! ' But on the 
hammer went, reckless alike whether it united or 
sundered for ever. On another stand I saw a man 
apparently as white as myself exposed for sale. I 
turned away from the humiliating spectacle. 

*' At another time I saw the concluding scene of 
this infernal drama. It was on the wharf. A slave 
ship, for New Orleans, was lying in the stream, and 
the poor nej>;roes, handcuffed and pinioned, were 
hurried off in boats, eight at a time. Here I wit- 
nessed the last farewell, — the heart-rending separa- 
tion of every earthly tie. The mute and agonizing 
embrace of the husband and wife, and the convulsive 
grasp of the mother and the child were alike torn 
asunder — for ever ! It was a living death, — the}' 
never see nor hear of each other more. Tears flowed 
fast, and mine with the rest." 

Charleston has long been celebrated for^the seve- 
rity of its laws against the blacks, and the mildness 
of its punishment towards the whites for maltreating 
them. Until the late law, there were about seventy- 
one crimes, for which slaves were capitally punished, 
and for which the highest punishment for whites was 
imprisonment in the penitentiary. 

A dreadful case of murder occurred at Charleston 
in 1806. A planter, called John Slater, made an 


unoffending, unresisting slave be bound hand and 
foot, and compelled his companion to chop off his 
head with an axe, and to cast his body, convulsed 
with the agonies of death, into the water. Judge 
Wild, who tried him, on awarding a sentence of im- 
prisonment against this wretch, expressed his regret 
that the punishment provided for the offence was 
insufficient to make the law respected, — that the 
delinquent too well knew, — that the arm which he 
had stretched out for the destruction of his slave, 
was that to which alone he could look for protection, 
disarmed as he was of the rights of self defence. 

But the most horrible butchery of slaves which 
has ever taken place in America, was the execution 
of thirty-five of them, on the lines near Charleston, 
in the month of July, 1822, on account of an alleged 
conspiracy against their masters. The whole pro- 
ceedings are monstrous. Sixty-seven persons were 
convicted before a court, consisting of a justice of the 
peace, and freeholders, without a jury. The evidence 
of slaves, not upon oath, was admitted against them, 
and, after all, the proof was extremely scanty. 
Perrault, a slave, who had himself been brought 
from Africa, was the chief witness. He had been 
torn from his father, who was very wealthy, and a 
considerable trader in tobacco and salt on the coast 
of Africa. He was taken prisoner, and was sold, 
and his purchaser would not give him up, although 
three slaves were offered in his stead. The judge's 
address on pronouncing sentence of death on this 
occasion, on persons sold to slavery and servitude, 
and who, if they were guilty, were only endeavouring 
to get rid of it in the only way in their power, seems 
monstrous. He told them that the servant who was 
false to his master would be false to his God, — that 
the precept of St. Paul was to obey their masters in 
q<ll things, and of St. Peter, to be subject to their 
masters with all fear, and that, had they listened to 
such doctrines, they would not now have been arres- 
ted by an ignominious death. 


The pioceedinos of this trial made some noise at 
the time. An official account of it was pubHshed, 
in which the execution of so great a number of per- 
sons was justified by the precedent of George the 
Second, who executed fifty-four of the first men in 
Britain for the rebellion of 1745. 

The existence of slavery in its most hideous form, 
in a country of absolute freedom in most respects, is 
one of those extraordinary anomilies for which it is 
impossible to account. No man was more sensible 
of this than Jefferson, nor more anxious that so foul 
a stain on the otherwise free institutions of the 
United States should be wiped away. His senti- 
ments on this subject, and on the peculiar situation 
of his countrymen in maintaining slavery, are thus 
given in a communication to one of his fnends : — 
" What an incomprehensible machine is man ! who 
can endure toil, famine, stripes, imprisonment, and 
death itself, in vindication of his own liberty, and 
the next moment be deaf to all those motives whose 
power supported him through his trial, and inflict on 
ins fellow -men a bondage, one hour of which is 
fraught with more misery than ages of that which he 
rose in rebellion to oppose. But we must await 
with patience the workings of an overruling Provi- 
dence, and hope that that is preparing the deliverance 
of these our suffering brethren. When the measure 
of their tears shall be full, — When their groans shall 
have involved Heaven itself in darkness, — doubtless 
a God of justice will awaken to their distress, and, 
by diffusing light and liberality among their oppres- 
sors, or at length, by his exterminating thunder, 
manifest his attention to the things of this world, 
and that thev are not left to the guidance of a blind 




"The first few weeks of my employment passed pleasantly 
enough; my master was satisfied with me, and on Sunday 
evenings I was able occasionally to enjoy a walk. But my 
spirits soon became less buoyant, and even my health began to 
suffer ; I entirely lost the florid look which was ray poor mother's 
admiration ; my very step grew slower, and there were Sundays 
when I declined the evening walk, which had been my only 
recreation, merely because the happy laugh and continued jests 
of (my friend) Henry Richards annoyed and distressed me while 
contrasted with my own heaviness of heart. Evening after 
evening, sometimes through a whole dismal night, I worked at 
my melancholy employment; and as my master was poor, and 
employed no other journeyman, I worked most commonly alone. 
Frequently as the heavy hammer descended, breaking at regular 
intervals the peaceful silence of night, I recalled some scene of 
sorrow and agony that I had witnessed in the day ; and as the 
echo of some shriek or stifled moan struck in fancy on my ear, 
I would pause to wipe the dew from my brow and curse the 
trade of a cofiin maker. Every day some fresh cause appeared 
to arise for loathing my occupation; whilst all were alike 
strangers to me in the town where my master lived, I worked 
cheerfully and wrote merrily home; but now that I began to 
know every one, to be acquainted with the number of members 
which composed different families, to hear of their sicknesses and 
misfortunes ; now that link after link bound me as it were by a 
spell, to feel for those round me, and to belong to them, my 
cheerfulness was over. The mother turned her eyes from me 
with a shuddering sigh, and gazed on the dear circle of little ones 
as if she sought to penetrate futurity and guess which of the 
young things, now rosy in health, was to follow her long lost and 
still lamented one. The doting father pressed the arm of his 
pale consumptive girl nearer to his heart, as he passed me : 
friends who were yet sorrowing for their bereavement, gave up 
the attempt at cheerfulness, and relapsed into melancholy silence 
at my approach. If I attempted (as I often did at first) to 
converse gaily with such of the townspeople as were of my 
master's rank in life, I was checked by a bitter smile, or a sudden 
sigh, which told me that while I was giving way to levity, the 
thoughts of my hearers had wandered back to the heavy hours 
when their houses were last darkened by the shadow of death. 

VOL. V. — 1835. L 


I carried about with me an unceasing curse; an imaginary 
barrier separated me from my fellow men. I felt like an execu- 
tioner, from whose bloody touch men shrink, not so much from 
loathing of the man, who is but the instrument of death, as from 
horror at the image of that death itself — death, sudden, appalling, 
and inevitable. Like him, I brought the presence of death too 
vividly before them ; like him, 1 was connected with the infliction 
of a doom I had no power to avert. Men withheld from me 
their affection, refused me their sympathy, as if I were not like 
themselves. My very mortality seemed less obvious to their 
imaginations when contrasted with the hundreds for wfiom my 
hand prepared the last narrow dwelling house, which was to 
shroud for ever their altered faces from sorrowful eyes. Where 
I came, there came heaviness of heart, mourn fulness, and 
weeping. Laughter was hushed at my approach ; conversation 
ceased; darkness and silence fell around my steps — the darkness 
and the silence of death. Gradually I became awake to my 
situation. I no longer attempted to hold free converse with my 
fellow men. I suffered the gloom of their hearts to overshadow 
mine. My step crept slowly and stealthily into their dwellings ; 
my voice lowered itself to sadness and monotony ; I pressed no 
hand in token of companionship ; no hand pressed mine, except 
when wrung with agony, some wretch, whose burden was more 
than he could bear restrained me for a few moments of maddened 
and ccmvulsive grief, from putting the last finishing stroke to my 
work, and held me back to gaze yet again on features which I 
was about to cover from his sight. It is well that God, in his 
unsearchable wisdom, hath made death loathsome to us. It is 
well that an undefined and instinctive shrinking within us, makes 
what we have loved for lonof years, in a few hours 

" That lifeless thing, the living fear." 

It is well that the soul hath scarcely quitted the body ere the 
work of corruption is begun. For if, even thus, mortality clings 
to the remnants of mortality, with ' love stronger than death;' if, 
as T have seen it, warm and living lips are pressed to features 
where the gradually sinking eye and hollow cheek speak horribly 
of departed life ; what would it be if the winged soul left its 
tenement of clay, to be resolved only into a marble death ; to re- 
main cold, beautiful, and imperishable ; every day to greet our 
eyes; every night to be watered with our tears ? The bonds 
which hold men together would be broken ; tlie future would lose 
its interest in our minds; we should remain sinfully mourning 


the idols of departed love, whose presence forbade oblivion of 
their loveliness; and a thin and scattered population v^^ould 
wander through the world as through the valley of the shadow of 
death ! How often have I been interrupted when about to nail 
down a coffin, by the agonizing entreaties of some wretch to 
whom the discoloured clay bore yet the trace of beauty, and the 
darkened lid seemed only closed in slumber; How often have I 
said, * Surely that heart will break with its woe ! ' and yet, in a 
little while, the bowed spirit rose again, the eye sparkled, and the 
lip smiled, because the dead were covered from their sight ; and 
that which is present to man's senses is destined to affect him far 
more powerfully than the dreams of his imagination or memory. 
How often, too, have I seen the reverse of the picture I have 
just drawn ; when the pale unconscious corse has lain abandoned 
in its loveliness, and grudging hands have scantily dealt out a 
portion of their superfluity, to obtain the last rites for one who so 
lately moved, spoke, smiled, and walked amongst them ! And 
I have felt, even then, that there were those to whom that neglect- 
ed being had been far more precious than heaps of gold, and I 
have mourned for them who perished among strangers. One 
horrible scene has chased another from my mind through a suc- 
cession of years; and some of those which, perhaps, deeply 
affected me at the time, are, by the mercy of Heaven, forgotten. 
But enough remains to enable me to give a faint outline of the 
causes which have changed me from what I was, to the gloomy, 
joyless being I am at length become. There is one scene indel- 
libly impressed upon my memory. 

"I was summoned late at night to the house of a respectable 
merchant, who had been reduced, in a great measure, by the 
wilful extravagance of his only son, from comparative wealth to 
ruin and distress. I was met by the widow, on whose worn and 
weary face the calm of despair had settled. She spoke to me for 
a few moments, and begged me to use dispatch and caution in 
the exercise of my calling : — ' for indeed,' said she, * I have 
watched my living son with a sorrow that has almost made me 
forget grief for the departed. For five days and five nights I have 
watched, and his bloodshot eye has not closed, no, not for a mo- 
ment, from its horrible task of gazing on the dead face of the 
father that cursed him. He sleeps now, if sleep it can be called, 
that is rather the torpor of exhaustion ; but his re;it is taken on 
that father's death-bed. Oh ! young man, feel for me ! Do 
your task in such a manner, that my wretched boy may not 


awake till it is over, and the blessing of the widow be on you for 
ever ! ' To this strange prayer I could only offer a solemn assu- 
rance that I would do my utmost to obey her ; and with slow, 
creeping steps we ascended the narrow stairs which led to the 
chamber of death. It was a dark, wretched-looking, ill-furnish- 
ed room, and a drizzling November rain pattered unceasingly at 
the latticed window, which was shaken from time to time by the 
fitful gusts of a moaning wind. A damp chillness pervaded the 
atmosphere, and rotted the falling paper from the walls; and, as 
I looked towards the hearth, (for there was no grate,) I felt pain- 
fully convinced that the old man had died without the common 
comforts his situation imperiously demanded. The white- wash- 
ed sides of the narrow fire-place were encrusted with a green 
damp, and the chimney- vent was stuffed with straw and fragments 
of old carpet, to prevent the cold wind from whistling through 
the aperture. The common expression, * lie has seen better 
days,' never so forcibly occurred to me as at that moment. He 
had seen better days : he had toiled cheerfully through the day, 
and sat down to a comfortable evening meal. The wine cup had 
gone round ; and the voice of laughter had been heard at his 
table for many a year, and yet here he had crept to die like a 
beggar ! I looked at the flock bed, and felt my heart grow sick 
within me. The corpse of a man, apparently about sixty, lay 
stretched upon it, and on his hollow and emaciated features the 
hand of death [)ad printed the ravages of many days. The veins 
had ceased to give even the appearance of life to the discoloured 
skin ; the eyelids were deep sunken, and the whole countenance 
was (and none but those accustomed to gaze on the face of the 
dead can understand me) utterly expressionless. But if a «ight 
like this was sickening and horrible, what shall I say of the 
miserable being to whom a temporary oblivion was giving strength 
for renewed agony ? He had apparently been sitting at the foot 
of the corpse, and, as the torpor of heavy slumber stole over him, 
had sunk forward, his hand still retaining the hand of the dead 
man. His face was hid ; but his figure, and the thick curls of 
dark hair, bespoke early youth. I judged him at most, to be 
two-and-twenty. I began my task of measuring the body, and 
few can tell the shudder which thrilled my frame as the carpen- 
ter's rule passed those locked hands — the vain effort of the 
living still to claim kindred with the dead ! It was over, and I 
stole from the room, cautiously and silently as I entered. Once, 
and only once, I tiirned to gaze at the melancholy group. 


There lay the corpse, stiff and unconscious; there sat the son, 
in an unconsciousness yet more terrible, since it could not last. 
There, pale and tearless, stood the wife of him, who, in his 
dying hour, cursed her child and his. How little she dreamed 
of such a scene when her meek lips first replied to his vows of 
affection ! IIow little she dreamed of such a scene when she 
first led that father to the cradle of his sleeping boy ! when they 
bent together with smiles of affection, to watch his quiet slumber, 
and catch the gentle breathing of his parted lips 1 I had scarcely 
reached the landing-place before the wretched woman's hand 
was laid lightly on my arm to arrest my progress. Her noiseless 
step had followed me without my being aware of it. * How 
soon will your work be done?' said she, in a suffocated voice. 
* To-morrow I could be here again,' answered I. * To-morrow ! 
and what am I to do, if my boy wakes before that time ? ' and 
her voice became louder and hoarse with fear. * He will go 
mad, I am sure he will; his brain will not hold against these 
horrors. Oh ! that God would hear me ! — that God would hear 
me! and let that slumber sit on his senses till the sight of the 
father that cursed him is no longer present to us ! Heaven be 
merciful to me ! ' and with the last words she clasped her hands 
convulsively, and gazed upwards. I had known opiates admin- 
istered to sufferers whose grief for their bereavement almost 
amounted to madness. I mentioned this hesitatingly to the 
widow, and she eagerly caught at it. ^ Yes ! that would do/ 
exclaimed she; ' that would do, if I could but get him past that 
horrible moment ! But stay ; I dare not leave him alone as he 
is, even for a little while : — what will become of me ! ' I offered 
to procure the medicine for her, and soon returned with it. I 
gave it into her hands, and her vehement expressions of thank- 
fulness wrung my heart. I had attempted to move the pity of 
the apothecary at whose shop I obtained the drug, by an account 
of the scene I had witnessed, in order to induce him to pay a 
visit to the house of mourning; but in vain. To him, who had 
not witnessed it, it was nothing but a tale of every-day distress. 
All that long night I worked at the merchant's coffin, and the 
dim grey light of the wintry morning found me still toiling on. 
Often, during the hours passed thus heavily, that picture of 
wretchedness rose before me. Again I saw the leaning and 
exhausted form of the young man, buried in slumber on his 
father's death-bed : again my carpenter's rule almost touched the 
clasped' hands of the dead and the living, and a cold shudder 


mingled with the chill of the dawning day, and froze my blood. 
" As I passed up one of the streets which led to the merchant's 
lodgings, my head bending under the weight of the coffin I was 
carrying, at every step I took, the air seemed to grow more thick 
around me, and at length, overcome by weariness, both of body 
and mind, I stopped, loosed the straps whicli steadied jny me- 
lancholy burden, and, placing it in an upright position against 
the wall, wiped the dew from my forehead, and (shall I confess 
it?) the tears from my eyes. I was endeavouring to combat the 
depression of my feelings by the reflection that I was the support 
and comfort of my poor old mother's life, when my attention was 
roused by the evident compassion of a young lady, who, after 
passing me with a hesitating step, withdrew her arm from that of 
her more elderly companion, and, pausing for an instant put a 
shilling into my hand, saying, * You look very weary, my poor 
man ; pray get something to drink with that/ A more lovely 
countenance (if by lovely be meant that which engages love) was 
never moulded by nature ; the sweetness and compassion of her 
pale fi\ce and soft, innocent eyes; the kindness of her gentle 
voice, made an impression on my memory too strong to be effaced. 
I saiv her once again ! I reached the merchant's lodgings, and 
ray knock was answered, as on the former occasion, by the widow 
herself. She sighed heavily as she saw me, and after one or two 
attempts to speak, informed me that her son was awake, but that 
it was impossible for her to administer the opiate, as he refused 
to let the smallest nourishment pass his lips ; but that he was 
quite quiet, indeed had never spoken since he woke; except to 
ask her how she felt; and she thought I might proceed without 
fear of his interruption. I entered accordingly, followed by a lad, 
son to the landlady who kept the lodgings, and with his assist- 
ance I proceeded to lift the corpse, and lay it in the coffin. The 
widow's son remained motionless, and, as it were, stupified 
during this operation : but the moment he saw me prepare the 
lid of the coffin so as to be screwed down, he started up with the 
energy and gestures of a madman. His glazed eyes seemed 
bursting from their sockets, and his upper lip, leaving the teeth 
bare, gave his mouth the appearance of a horrible and convulsive 
smile. He seized my arm with his whole strength ; and, as I 
felt his grasp, and saw him struggling for words, I expected to 
hear curses and execrations, or the wild howl of an infuriated 
madman I was mistaken. The wail of a sickly child, who 
dreads its mother's departure was the only sound to which I could 


compare that wretched man's voice. He held me with a force 
almost supernatural ; but his tongue uttered supplications in a 
feeble monotonous tone, and with the most humble and beseech- 
ing manner. * Leave him,' exclaimed he, * leave him a little 
while longer. He will forgive me; I know he will. He spoke 
that horrible word to rouse my conscience. But I heard him 
and came back to him. I would have toiled and bled for him ; 
he knows that well. Hush ! hush ! I cannot hear his voice for 
my mother's sobs ; but I know he will forgive me. Oh ! father, 
do not refuse 1 I am humble — I am penitent. Father, I have 
sinned against Heaven and before thee — father, I have sinned ! 
Oh ! mother, he is cursing me again. He is lifting his hand to 
curse me — his right hand. Look, mother, look ! Save me, 
Oh, God ! my father curses me on his dying bed ! Save me, 

oh ! ' The unfinished word resolved itself into a low, hollow 

groan, and he fell back insensible. I would have assisted him, 
but his mother waved me back. * Better so, better so,' she re- 
peated hurriedly ; it is the mercy of God which has caused this 
— do you do your duty, and I will do mine,' and she continued 
to kneel and support the head of her son, while we fastened and 
secured down the coffin. At length all was finished, and then 
and not till then we carried the wretched youth from the chamber 
of death, to one as dark, as gloomy, and as scantily furnished, but 
having a wood fire burning in the grate, and a bed with ragged 
curtains at one end of it. And here, in comparative comfort, the 
landlady allowed him to be placed, even though she saw little 
chance of her lodgers being able to pay for the change. Into the 
glass of water held to his parched lips, as he recovered his senses, 
I poured a sufficient quantity of the opiate to produce slumber, 
and had the satisfaction of hearing his mother fervently thank 
God, as still half unconscious, he swallowed the draught. I 
thought he would not have survived the shock he had received ; 
but I was mistaken. The merchant was buried and forgotten ; 
the son lived, and we met again in a far, far different scene." 



Jan. 1., Oihelloy and The Poor Soldier. 

The character of Othello, the ardent, impetuous, misled Moor, in 
allowed to be one of the most difficult undertaken by an actor; 
and, though Mr. Kean displayed talent of the highest order 
in his performance, and was really excellent in numerous 
instances, yet it must be admitted that he stood much higher in 
the enactment of Richard, and infinitely more so in his personifi- 
cation of Hamlet. Mr. Hield, as lago, and Miss M^sou^^^ 
Desderaona, rendered very able support. , .- 

In the afterpiece, Vivash burlesqued tlie boozing priest with 
much humour, and Wilton was respectable as the gasconading 

Jan. 2., Merchant of Venice^ and Rosina, 
Mr. Kean as Shy lock. Shylock has little to do, but that little 
was done "excellent well i' fiiith." Hield made the most of 
Gratiano. Why did he nut take the part of Anthonio ? Miss 
Mason's Portia was highly creditable, and— we speak it not pro- 
fanely — she made " an excellent young man," a most " upright 

Jan. 5. 6. 7. 8. 9. 10., Sardanupulus. 
At a great expence, and evidently after much and incessant care 
and preparation, Mr. Sandford brought out Lord Byron's cele- 
brated tragedy of Sardanapalus. The new and splendid scenery, 
dresses, decorations, &c., rendered it magnificent as a spectacle. 
As a drama, it depends on three characters, whicli were ably 
sustained by Mr. Kean, Mr. Hield, and Miss Mason. Mr. 
Kean availed himself of whatever scope for acting the princi- 
pal personage of the tragedy affords. The part of Salamenes — 
noble, loyal, and heroic — was adequately sustained by Mr. Hield. 
Miss Mason, entering fully into the character of Myrrha — a cre- 
ation of devoted love and noble heroism, — displayed taste, judg- 
ment, and pathos. She dressed the character chastely and 
gracefully. O ! that our fair countrywomen would extirpate 
balloon sleeves and prodigious bustles, and not so disguise the 
most lovely of God's works, that it appears the veriest monster 
which walks upon the earth. 

Jan. 12., Hainletjixud The Hunter of the Alps. 
Mr Keen's benefit. Hamlet has been recognised as Mr. Kean's 
chef d' oeuvre. He was particularly excellent in the scenes with 
Horatio and Marcellus — that in which he catches the conscience 


of the king by the play — the closet scene with his mother — and 
the concluding scene. Miss Jarman's Ophelia was well acted, 
and her singing beautifully adapted to the character. Mr. Kean's 
cunning of fence found a very good foil in the Laertes of the 
night, Mr. J. B. Hill. 

Jan. 13., SardanapaLuSj and Mt/ Neighbour s Wife. 
Under the patronage of Admiral Codrington. My Neighbour's 
Wife is a highly laughable extravaganza, in which Mr. Hield 
acquits himself admirably, and Miss Hemipel performs conamore. 

Jan. 14., Last night of Sardanapalus. 

Jan. 16., The Wedding Gown, Lock and Key, and Mi/ 
Neighbours Wife. 

The first of these is the story of a refugee Polish noble. Count 
Lubeski, (Hield) and his daughter, Augusta, (Miss Mason) are 
in England with very precarious means of subsistence. The 
Count finds a friend in Mr. Beeswing, (Vivash) whose nephew, 
(Hill) by especial command of his uncle, is about to contract a 
marriage of interest with a Lady Margaret, (Miss Jarman) Lady 
Margaret cordially hates her intended bridegroom, having pre- 
viously intrusted her heart, to the keeping of Effingham, (Moore) 
a man after her own desire. The nephew as magnanimously 
detests Lady Margaret, having plighted his troth to Augusta 
Lubeski, two years before, at Dresden. The course of these two 
couple of true lovers is, as usual, thickly beset with most disastrous 
chances, moving accidents, and hair breadth scapes ; however, 
as usual, they are all surmounted : Lady Margaret allows 
Effingham to run away with her, and the good natured priest 
who has been summoned to unite her to Beeswing's nephew, is 
doomed to effect a comfortable splice between Augusta and her 
devoted swain, much to the satisfaction of all parties. 

The dialogue is spirited throughout, and the interest well 
sustained ; — but one incident towards the close of the piece is as 
unnatural as it is uncalled for. — The Pole knowing that his 
daughter loves Clarendon, (Hill) and that he is equally attached 
to her, commands her to act as bridesmaid, at his expected 
marriage with Lady Augusta, and she consents; — this may be 
heroism after the old Roman fashion, but not after the fashion of 
poor human nature. The piece was well cast and well acted 

In " Lock and Key,'^ Vivash, as old Brummagem, performed 
with abundance of humour; and Norman, as Ralph, made a 
very good hit: we owe it to the latter actor to say now (what we 
VOL. v. — 1835. M 


unintentionally omitted last month) that his Ezekiel Homespun, 
in the Honey Moon, was a highly spirited and really clever piece 
of acting, and would assuredly have been creditable even on the 
Metropolitan boards. 

Jan. 19., School for Scandal, ^nd Simpson and Co. 
Under the patronage of J. Collier, Esq., M. P., and T. Bewes, 
Esq., M. P. Mr. Sandford's Sir Peter Teazle was, by far, the 
best character of this evening — he sustained the part throughout 
with a vigour which surprised and delighted us. In the scene 
with the two Surfaces, after his wife has been discovered behind 
the screen, he threw a truth and earnestness into his acting which 
rendered the illusion perfect. Miss Mason personated the young 
wife in a very creditable manner. Vivash (Sir Oliver Surface), 
Norman (Sir Benjamin Backbite), Wilton (Crabtree), Fuller 
(Moses), and Hield (Charles Surface), were good also. 

Jan. 20., I'he Wedding Gown, Lovers' Quarrels, and Plot 
and Counterplot. 

—=— 22., The Wonder, and The happiest day of my life. 

23., Laugh when you can, and Turn out. 

26., The Wedding Gown, and Aladdin. 

Under the patronage of Admiral and Lady Hargood. The splen- 
did spectacle of Aladdin was again brought forward by Mr. 
Sandford, on this evening, and well deserved the patronage of the 
overflowing house which had assembled to witness it. It is as 
superb as gorgeous scenery, splendid dresses and decorations, and 
ingenious machinery, can make it. Mr. Horsman, as Abenazar, 
dressed the character well, and acted it excellently : it is by far 
the best thing which he has done this season . Mr. Hill, as 
Kazrac, gave great satisfaction to the gods, and little boys and 
girls, for he buffooned it to the top of their bent. Miss Hempel 
did her best for Aladdin ; and Miss Dearlove, as the fairy of the 
ring, received much applause. Miss Jarman sang *' Tyrant soon 
I '11 burst thy chains" in her usual exquisite style. On the 
whole, every thing went off well. 

On Monday next, February 2nd, will be brought forward, for 
the first time, the new melo-dramatic play called Henriette, or 
the Forsaken, which has been for some time in rehearsal. The 
performances of the evening have been announced to be under 
the patronage of Sir Willoughby and Lady Augusta Cotton. 




December 4rn. — Rev. G. Smith's Lecture on Meinory. 

Tlie Lecturer commenced by introducing some observations on 
the advantages of mental science in general, and tlie importance 
of a correct acquaintance with the faculty of memory in particu- 
lar, arising from its value in connecting the past with the present, 
and aiding the judgment in all transactions in life. In defining 
the capabilities and powers of memory, he enquired into the 
propriety of classing this property of the mind with conception 
and imagination as an original power, and endeavoured to prove 
that they should rather be resolved into the more general mental 
tendency denominated suggestion. 

The lecturer examined some varieties of memory, and attempt- 
ed to fix their peculiarities and illustrate their distinctive features 
by some remarkable instances of susceptibility, retentiveness, and 
readiness. He next estimated the properties and value of a good 
memory, and adverted to some natural and artificial methods of 
attaining that object. In the course of his paper he showed the 
importance of attention, discrimination, and philosophic arrange- 
ment in reference to this acquisition ; -and examined the utility of 
the topical memory of the ancient rhetoricians, the Memoria 
Technica of Grey, and some other schemes of artificial memory. 

December 11th. — Mr. Hearder's Lecture on Gaseous 

The Lecturer began by pointing out the difference which 
exists between the combustion of solid matter and that of gaseous 
bodies, showing that this latter state of combustion was the more 
perfect, in consequence of the combining bodies being presented 
to each other under the most favourable conditions. The princi- 
pal characteristics of flame, he stated, were heat and light ; and 
then showed, by analysing flame, that different portions of it 
possessed different properties, one part giving light and another 
heat. He considered that the light of flame depended upon two 
causes; first, the quantity of solid matter contained in it, and, 
secondly, the degree to which that solid matter was ignited. He 
showed that the heat depended upon the energy of combination 
between the bodies, and exhibited, in proof of this, the combus- 
tion of oxygen and hydrogen gases, with tlie oxy-hydrogen blow- 


pipe. Here the most intense heat was produced, though the 
light of the flame was scarcely appreciable, in consequence of the 
absence of solid matter. He next explained that the light pro- 
duced by the combustion of different volatile substances was 
limited in consequence of the energy of their combination produ- 
cing only a limited degree of temperature. 

He took the flame of a common candle; — the light produced 
by this depended upon the temperature to which the carbon con- 
tained in it was ignited ; this temperature being limited, the 
ignition was limited. If then this temperature could be increased 
by extraneous means, the light would be increased in proportion. 
This was proved by passing the flame of the oxy-hydrogen blow- 
pipe through the bright part of the flame of th^" candle, the 
increased brilliancy of which was instantly evident. The 
same effect was still more strikingly produced by, submitting 
the flame of spirit of turpentine to the same trial. Light was 
shown still further to depend on the power of the solid matter to 
sustain ignition without combustion ; several refractory solid 
substances were submitted to the action of the oxy-hydrogen 
blowpipe, and it was found that the light kept pace with the tem- 
perature up to the point at which they either entered into com- 
bustion or were volatilized. Lime and magnesia, offering the 
greatest resistance to the action of the heat, produced consequently 
the greatest light. 

The lecturer then proceeded to show that when the combustion 
of the solid matter took place, the liglit diminished; and then 
explained the conditions necessary for producing the greatest 
degree of light in the combustion of ordinary flames. 

After detailing to the Society the result of his late investigations 
on the effects of pressure on flame, which we shall give at length 
in a future number, the lecturer concluded by enumerating some 
of the many practical advantages which had accrued to mankind 
from the researches of philosophers in this department of science. 
Two of the most prominent were the safety lamp of Sir H. Davy, 
and the introduction of gas lighting. This latter was illustrated 
by a small, simple apparatus, in which oil gas was manufactured 
in a few minutes, in the presence of the society. 

December 18th. — Mr. H. VVoollcombe's Lecture on 
Public Records. 

Rev. Mr. Rowe's name stood on the card for a Lecture this 
evening on the Origin and Progress of the English Language — 


but circumstances having occurred which prevented him from 
delivering it, his place was supplied by Mr. Woollcombe, the 
President, who read a paper (which was intended for Jan. 1st, 
1835) on Public Records. 

The lecturer commenced by showing the value and importance 
which should be attached to public records in general; and the 
absolute necessity for their preservation. He pointed out their 
value to the lawyer, by their affording him precedence in cases 
of doubt; to the historian and topographer, since they are fur- 
nished from them, with numerous facts and incidents, whether 
connected with national history or only confined to the history of 
a borough or parish. He considered that every one who has 
reflected at all on this subject must be aware that a vast mass of 
works of our parliamentary proceedings and of our courts of law 
and equity exist somewhere, and must therefore come to the 
conclusion that if they exist, and are of the value they are alledged 
to be, it is desirable that they should be preserved somewhere, 
beyond the reach of common accident of fire or damp, where 
they should be rendered easy of access to all who might desire to 
consult them. 

The lecturer described the principal places where national 
and other important records were preserved, viz. the Tower, the 
Rolls^^' Chapel, in Chancery Lane, comprising the Petty-bag 
office, the Crown office, the Examiners' office, as well as the Six 
Clerks' office, also in Chancery Lane; at Westminster (though 
these records have been since deposited in the Rolls' Chapel, or 
in apartments in the basement story of the eastern wing of 
Somerset Place;) also at the British Museum, in the Chapter 
House of Westminster, the Temple, the King's Bench Treasury, 
the common Pleas' Treasury, and the Treasury of the receipts of 
the Exchequer. 

The earliest records now extant in the Tower are the Cartae 
Antiques, the charter and rolls of the first year of King John, 
and divers records of the court of Chancery, in the 2nd, 3rd, 
and 6th years of that King's reign. 

These records, together with the returns of the Knights and 
Burgesses to Parliament, the petitions and proceedings in Par- 
liament, all matters relating to the See of Rome, the Rolls of 
Scotland, Treaties of peace. Instructions to ambassadors. 
Inquisitions post mortem, and a variety of other instruments, 
forming a collection of memorials of great national importance, 
were, in the reigns of the three first Edwards, preserved in the 
archives of the Court of Chancery in the King's Treasuries. 


After describing of what the records in the Tower principally 
consisted, he descanted on the adaptation and eligibility of other 
places used as depositories of this kind. But the society would 
be surprised to hear, that the situation selected in the White 
Tower, called Caesar's Chapel, is actually over a magazine in 
which the Ordnance Board has a quantity of gunpowder, 
sufficient to annihilate all our precious records; and, although 
the greatest exertions had been made to get the gunpowder 
removed yet the Board of Ordnance retains it to this very moment, 
for the same purpose. Again, it has been reported to Parliament, 
that the records deposited in the roof of the Rolls' Chapel, have 
suffered very materially from being exposed in summer to too 
much heat, and in the wet season to too much damp. Yet 
there they still remain to rot. 

The lecturer then described some of the means which have 
been adopted for the security of public records; he noticed 
several complaints which had been made to the crown respecting 
their insecurity, none of which complaints were attended to until 
the year 1800, when, in consequence of the solicitation of the 
House of Commons, Doomsday book, the rolls of Parliament, and 
other ancient and valuable monuments of our history. Laws, 
and Government, were printed ; and, in consequence of the 
regulations made in furtherance of this object, the Plymouth 
Library received as a deposit 72 folio volumes, containing many 
interesting and very important documents. 

The king appointed a commission, called the record commission, 
for carrying those measures into effect and much has been done 
in the way of making indexes and arranging them ; but much, 
very much, remains to be done in this way, and with regard to 
the procuring of more safe, commodious and capacious reposi- 
tories, nothing has been done. 

Having reached thus far in the subject, the lecturer proceeded 
to examine into the cause of the apathy under which the govern- 
ment appear to slumber, and detailed some of the propositions 
which have been made, with a design of providing for the con- 
servation of records and the erection of record offices. 

The plan suggested by Mr. Cooper appeared to be the most 
unobjectionable, especially to the Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
since he proposes encountering the expence without drawing upon 
his money bags, or laying any additional burthen on the pockets 
of the people. There is a fund set apart, in the court of Chance- 
ry, called the Suitor's Fund, which is now invested in the three 
per cent Consols, and returned annuities, producing, clear of 


certain charges which the Parliament have allowed from time to 
time upon it, an income of £25,490. yearly. 

Mr. Cooper proposes to avail himself of a portion of this fund, 
to carry his design into execution ; and then points out the eligi- 
bility, as far as regards the Temple, Lincoln's Inn, and the other 
official residences of the lawyers, of the site of the Rolls' Chapel, 
in Chancery Lane, for the erection of an edifice, to be adapted in 
every respect to the deposit and preservation of all the public 
records of the kingdom, now dispersed about in different parts of 
the metropolis- 
After having given further details of Mr. C.'s plan, the lecturer 
drew the attention of the society to the fact that, in the northern 
metropolis of our sister kingdom, a magnificent edifice has been 
lately raised for the same purpose that we are contemplating. It 
is called the General Register House, and cost the nation £37,643. 
It is erected in the New Town, at the head of Prince's Street, 
and is a great ornament to that splendid city. 

This building contains not only all the Parliamentary and 
Judicial records of Scotland, but the voluminous records of land 
rights, of the immense extent of which last some notion may be 
formed when it is stated, that the index to one particular species 
of instrument, comprising a period only of twenty years, which 
has lately been printed, forms 3,500 pages in folio. 

The lecturer then expatiated on the value and absolute neces- 
sity of copious indexes ; and concluded with some remarks on 
the qualifications necessary for the individuals who should under- 
take the office of deciphering, and judiciously arranging, matters 
of such vast moment, in whatever point we view them. 

1835, January 1st. — Mr. Owen's Lecture on the Consump- 
tion of Smoke. 

On this evening Mr. Owen read a paper on the consumption 
of smoke by means of combustion in which, after dwelling on the 
importance of the subject as it regarded public comfort, &c., he 
explained the phenomenon of combustion and then showed the 
application of its principles to the consumption of smoke. 
Several plans were explained, which had been introduced for 
this purpose, and the paper was concluded by referring to the 
combustion of smoke as connected with the use of coal tar for 
fuel on board steam vessels. 

The lecturer illustrated his observations^by several exceedingly 
neat and ingenious diagrams. 


January 8th. — Mr. W. Walker*s Lecture on Geological 
Changes resulting from Meteorological Agency. 

The Lecturer introduced his paper by some prefatory remarks 
on the importance of Geology as a science; and alluded to the 
errors committed by early geologists, in mixing up cosmological 
theories with geological facts. He then gave a brief summary of 
the present state of our geological knowledge, which may be con- 
densed as follows. The planet we inhabit is an oblate spheroid, 
having a mean diameter of about 42 millions of feet. Its polar 
axis is about 26 miles less tlian its equatorial diameter. The 
earth is enveloped in a transparent atmosphere, whose weight 
would equal that of a volume of water sufficient to cover the 
whole globe to a depth of 35 feet. 

After noticing the relative proportions of land and water, and 
their geographical distribution, the lecturer went on to say that 
the Earth, taken as a homogeneous mass, had a mean density, 
five times greater than an equal volume of water; and that its 
central parts must have a specific gravity equal to many of the 
metals known to us. 

To be concladed in onr next. 


The Moor ! the moor ! O, such a sight 

Hath seldom met the human view ; 
The Sun shines o*er it calmly bright 

Clothing its hills with dazzling hue. 
Tor above tor — the craggy peaks. 

Proud rising, seem to kiss the sky 
The wind alone the silence breaks 

And distant shrieks the sea-mew's cry. 
How few can feel the love to roam 

'Mid scenes so desolate and wild ? 
Cities to me afford no home, 

For I was formed for Nature's child ; 
To worship in her lonely fane — 

To linger o'er her wond'rous forms, 
While, round me, o'er tlie desert reign 

The thunder's voice and rack of storms. 
Here though her tors may barren be, 

Invested with a waste of snow, ^ 

The wilderness hath joys for me — 

The lone hill makes my spirit glow. M. A. P. 



PLYMOUTH, MARCH 1st, 1835. 
No. 27.] Price Sixpence. [Vol. V. 


The inhabitants of Stonehouse, a town daily increas- 
ing in population and importance, had long been 
greatly inconvenienced for want of church-room. 
The parochial chapel does not furnish accommodation 
for more than one eighth of the parishioners, while 
there is a lamentably undue proportion of free sittings 
for the poor. His Majesty's Commissioners there- 
fore determined to erect a chapel capable of contain- 
ing nearly one thousand persons within the precincts 
of the parish. A spot of ground, at the west end of 
Durnford Street, having been munificently granted 
by the Rt. Hon. the Earl of Mount Edgcumbe, the 
structure, of which we give an engraving, was built 
thereupon, at an expense not exceedilig £3,000, from 
designs furnished by J. Foulston, Esq., the commis- 
sioners' architect. It has been thought that the 
objects for which the chapel was erected would have 
been better promoted by a more central site than the 
present, but it should be remembered that, at the 
time when the spot was fixed upon, a much more 
rapid increase of buildings, in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, was contemplated than has since taken 

The chapel, the most pleasing view of which is 

from the Mill-bay road to Plymouth, is in the early 

Enghsh style, with the principal entrance at the west 

end, under a tower surmounted by four lofty pinna- 

voL. V. — 1835. N 


cles. A chaste and decorous simplicity prevails 
throughout all the arrangements of the interior. The 
pulpit, reading desk, &c., are of wainscot, the pews 
and free benches being judiciously painted to corres- 
pond. The communion table is handsome and 
massive, also of wainscot, designed in correspondence 
with the style of the chapel. The altar-piece is in 
imitation of granite, and the usual inscriptions of the 
Lord's Prayer, Creed, and Decalogue are exceedingly 
well executed in the manner of letters graven on 
stone. The communion rail is of cast iron, of an 
appropriate pattern. 

The composition (we suppose we may call it) of 
the entire east end, including the altar recess and 
the great window, is exceedingly pleasing, but we 
decidedly object to the appearance of the two pulpits, 
for the reading desk and pulpit are really so, being 
precisely similar in height and in every other respect. 
We are advocates for a central situation for the 
pulpit, as well as for its greater height, on the 
grounds of ecclesiastical propriety ; and always feel 
that it is putting the clergyman to unnecessary 
trouble to cause him to come down from the pulpit 
on one side of the church, to go up into the pulpit 
on the other side, without any apparent reason what- 
ever, except for the purpose of preserving architectu- 
ral uniformity, which might be far better consulted 
by a different arrangement of the pulpit and reading 

The font, at the west end, is one of the most 
beautiful we have seen ; executed in dark Plymouth 
marble, (by Mr. Greenham, of Russell Street, Ply- 
mouth) octagonal in form, with the faces adorned by 
quatrefoils. The exterior of the chapel presents a 
substantial appearance, — the buttresses, door and 
window frames, drip stones pinnacles. Sec, being all 
of wrought lime stone, as are likewise the pinnacles 
by which the body of the edifice, and the tower, are 

The chapel was opened for divine service on the 
5th of July, 1832, with a sermon by the late minister, 

ST. Paul's chapel. 99 

the Rev. S. Rowe, — and was consecrated by the 
Bishop of Exeter, .on the 27th Sept. 1833.— The 
pews are capable of accommodating more than 400 
persons, and in addition more than 500 free sittings 
are reserved for the poor, a large portion of which 
are in the very best situations. We earnestly wish 
that equal accommodation for the poorer classes of 
the community was to be found in all the churches. 

The chapel has received some munificent dona- 
tions. The Earl of Mount Edgcumbe presented a 
handsome service of communion plate. The late 
Robert Bint, Esq., of Mount Stone, generously gave 
fifty pounds towards the necessary expenses atten- 
dant on the opening and fitting up of the chapel for 
divine service ; and Mrs. Bint, with her accustomed 
liberality, gave two large and handsome chandeliers 
for lightincr up the chapel at the evening service. 

We might be disposed to criticise some of the 
features of the building, did we not know that the 
means at the command of the architect were strictly 
limited. We are rather disposed to w^onder, consid- 
ering the expense of wrought stone, that he could 
have raised a fabric which forms so pleasing an 
object, for a sum within £3,000. It has only 
served to confirm an opinion which we have long 
held, that the Gothic, or Pointed, or whatever archi- 
tects may be pleased to designate the glorious style 
of our forefathers, is that which should be uniformly 
adhered to for ecclesiastical structures. With no 
other can an architect do so much and so well at the 
same expense ; though we should have been pleased 
had Mr. Foulston's means allowed him to raise St. 
Paul's tower about 20 feet higher. 

^Ji: 100 


There are a thousand natural objects on the surface 
of our earth, which afford pleasure to the eye, and 
delioht to the senses, but none in a greater degree 
than the contemplation of a lofty and magnificent 
mountain. The enthusiastic young artist ascends 
the mountain ravine, or climbs its rugged precipice ; 
in order to pourtray the mimic landscape beneath ; 
or else to paint all the beauties of the mountain 
gorge, with its brawling brook, its rough grey rocks, 
hanging woods, and sylvan scenery. The Devotee 
retires to mountainous regions to select the cave, or 
construct the hermitage, in which he may muse on 
the follies of a sinful world : here he is sure to enjoy 
Nature in her most engaging attire: he may ** woo 
lone quiet in her silent walks," and at the same time 
inspire his votaries with awful reverence ; for super- 
stition has, in all ages, assigned the holy men — and 
supernatural beings, a lofty and mountainous resi- 
dence. The Natural Philosopher is governed by 
wider views : he knows that mountains are the 
sources of a thousand blessings; their elevated and 
cold peaks condense the vapours floating in the air : 
it is here where magazines of cold and moisture are 
stored, and give rise to springs which trickle down 
the mountain sides, watering the woods and flowery 
fields. All the rivers of the earth are the offspring 
of high and mountainous regions, the largest and 
longest rising in the most elevated parts. By the 
length of a river's course the geographer is enabled 
to estimate the elevation of its source above the 
level of the ocean. 

Mountains not only modify the temperature of the 
air passing over them, but without mountains the 
earth would be unfit for its present inhabitants. 
There are extensive plains, such as the Sahara of 
Africa ; the central deserts of Asia, and the Pampas 
of America, that are almost barren and desolate for 
want of mountains to condense vapours and water 


these districts with occasional showers : even the flat 
and fertile fields of Egypt owe their fertility to the 
River Nile, a lineal descendant of the Abyssinian 
mountains. There are mountains within the Torrid 
Zone that possess a tropical climate at their base, a 
temperate climate at a certain elevation above the 
sea, and per|>etual snow at their summits. Teneriffe 
is of this kind, and the Andes afford other examples. 
The traveller, in his ascent, meets with a gradual 
succession of different vegetables and animals whose 
natures are suited for, and governed by, the temper- 
ature and other circumstances due to their elevation 
above the sea level. Without changing his parallel 
of latitude he may, in a few hours, pass from a torrid 
to a frigid zone. In such a journey there are some 
peculiarities that occur which require notice. We 
reach the region of clouds and get enveloped in mist, 
moisture, and rank vegetation. We then emerge 
into blue sky, keen air, and bright sunshine ; while 
the white fleecy clouds lie beneath our feet, and 
conceal from our view the whole world and its con- 
cerns, unless it be that a craggy cliff* or clump of 
trees breaks through the upper stratum of clouds, 
and appears like a black ship in a white ocean of 
clouds. Above, we behold a region of perpetual 
snow and, perad venture, a cone, giving out volumes 
of light blue smoke or white steam. A little higher 
up, and the cold becomes very sharp and pinching, 
the barometer now stands at 18®., the thermometer 
at 27*^., of Farenheit, and water is found to boil at a 
temperature of 190 ''. instead of 212®. 

The mountaineer is a child of liberty : though 
clad in humble garb he possesses an elevated mind 
and heroic qualities. He detests tyranny in any 
shape, and looks down with disdain on the serfs of 
the plain. His ancient dialect, primitive manners, 
and picturesque costume, are carefully preserved and 
faithfully transmitted down from one generation to 

A mountain is a natural acropolis of liberty ! The 
natives of the mountains of Switzerland won their 


independance, and have preserved their Hbeity, from 
the attacks of European despotism. The Marouetes 
of Syria, housed among the heights of Mount 
Libanus, manage to keep Turkish tyranny at a 
distance ; Hke the great Cedars of Lebanon they 
owe their safety to their mountain defiles. The 
mountains of the Morea have preserved a remnant 
of Spartan independance, for the Mainhottes have 
preserved their liberty from the armies of the Ven- 
etian, the Turk, and Egyptian. The mountain 
ridge is the last refuge which nature has reared to 
preserve liberty in the Earth, " to preserve to man 
his highest hopes, his noblest emotions, his dearest 
treasures, his faith, his freedom, his health and home. 
How glorious do these mountain ridges appear when 
we look upon them as the unconquerable abode of 
free hearts ; as the stern, heaven-built walls from 
which the few, the feeble, the persecuted, the des- 
pised, the helpless child, the delicate woman have, 
from age to age, in their last perils, in all their weak- 
nesses and emergencies, when power and cruelty 
were ready to swallow them up, looked down and 
beheld the million waves of despotism break at their 
feet ! " The murderous host avoids the mountain 
defiles: it passes on and subjugates the natives of 
the plain ; while the stern mountaineer looks down 
with contempt and scorn, on the instruments of am- 
bition and tyranny. In all ages, and in every part 
of the Earth, have mountains been held in veneration. 
The Muses were natives of, and lived among, moun- 
tains. Old Admiral Noah, struck soundings, and 
laid his Ark aground, on the top of Mount Ararat, 
here he disembarked and built an altar. Homer tells 
us that the Gods, having met in council to deliberate 
on Greek and Trojan affairs ; Jupiter took coach for 
Mount Ida, to survey the approaching fight: — 
" High on the throne he shines ; his coursers fly 
Between the extended earth and starry sky. 
But when to Ida's topmost height he came, 
Fair nurse of fountains, and of savage game, 
Where, o'er her pointed summits proudly raised, 
His fane breath'd odours, and his altar blazed, 


There, from his radiant car, the sacred sire 
Of Gods and men, released the steeds of fire. 
Blue ambient mists th' immortal steeds embraced ; 
High on the cloudy point his seat he placed ; 
Thence his broad eye the subject world surveys, 
The town, and tents, and navigable seas." 

Certainly Jupiter, as a general, could not have chosen 
a better position than Mount Ida, in order to survey 
a battle in the plains of Troy. But where are the 
Trojans? what has become of Baylon, Nineveh, 
Thebes, and other great cities built in plains ? Alas ! 
they have fallen a prey to the conqueror ; and have 
disappeared before the sword of the destroyer. But 
Athens, with its little acropolis, still exists among 
its attic mountains ; and the banners of freedom are 
again floating over the venerable remains of Minerva's 



Considering the rapidity with which matter for newspapers is 
collected, written, printed, revised, and published, the general 
and great accuracy of their typography cannot be sufficiently 
commended. English newspapers rank higher than any others 
in the world in this respect, whilst the majority of those of 
Ireland, the sister island, may be known at a glance, by the 
inferior paper used, their slovenly printing, and random arrange- 

Typographical errors in English newspapers seem generally 
the result of accident, but the mistakes of a Hibernian compositor 
very often appear as if they had been made on purpose, for the 
pure fun of the thing, under the enlivening influence of mountain 
dew. In one or two late numbers of the "Cork Southern Re- 
porter," may be found the following choice sentences : — 

" That gallant corpse, the Galway volnnteers." 
" His wife kept a diary which supplied excellent milk." 
"To give up the privilege oi shelling (feeling) for ourselves." 
^ " West end Heels." (Hells) 

" Dying as he thought of aseites and oe of the lower extremidities." 
" Sio AustUy Coopss's Lectneres." 
** Laid down on our cJiear tc." (charts) 
" Eight sail of sels.'* (vessels) &c. &c. 


Round her glen, the live-long day. 

He would stray and sigh : 
Noon and eve and twilight came. 

Still he lingered nigh. 

When her sister, the young Dawn, 

Hurried from the gaze of day. 
She would sit, among the flowers. 

To weep her grief away. 

Zephyrus, with a violet wreathe 

Dried up her tears of dew; 
And where the fragrant chaplet fell 

More odorous blossoms grew. 

At noon-tide when she sought the shade 

He still was near her there, 
And wafted through the green-wood gloom 

A cool and perfumed air. 

When she slept he wove a song. 

Full of passion's pain ; 
Wild and sweet, yet sometimes sad. 

Like a spirit's strain. 

Then he whispered in her ear — 

With a playful wile — 
Some soft words : she slumbered on ; 

Fair dreams made her smile. 

Many a long — long kiss of love 
He sealed on her warm breast ; 

So bland in touch, it never stirred 
Her deep and balmy rest. 



No. VII. 

*' A thing of shreds and patches." 

A GKNTLEMAN Called on me some weeks back to 
know whether I would receive his son as an articled 
clerk, to which I took the liberty of replying, that 
the willingness of an architect to undertake the 
instruction of a youth, should, in a great measure, 
depend upon the real willingness of the latter to 
receive that instruction. To this the applicant 
acceded ; politely stating his conviction, that, should 
his " boy '' be placed in my office, no attention on 
my part would be wanting. The conference on this 
occasion was brief; for the subject of "terms" was 
next touched upon, evidently to the discomfiture of 
my visitor, who, nevertheless, managed a tolerably 
graceful exit, under intimation of calling again. 

Two days after, the gentleman made good his 
word, and re-appeared with his " boy," — of Corin- 
thian proportions, as to tallness, and bearing marks 
of having 

" Discontinued school above a twelve-month." 

He was dressed after the most approved fashion, 
and greeted me with a kind of sickly bow, as the 
father introduced him — 

" My son, sir." 

The progress of conversation soon developed the 
qualifications of the young gentleman. By his 
mother's particular request, he was to climb no 
ladders — mount no scaffolds. At his father's urgent 
desire, he was to be put in the way of ascending the 
topmost height of his profession. According to his 
own agreement, he was to do no cross multiplication, 
and to stand exempt from all co-operation with 
vulgar workmen and " measures." Having ventured 
to explain the utter incompatibility of the father's 
desire with the stipulations of mother and son, I 
bade them a very respectful farewell ; nor did I see 
more of this hopeful youth, until a few days past, 

VOL. v.— 183.S. o 


when to my surprise he strutted by the window in a 
coat of fearful scarlet, accoutred with feather, sword 
and epaulette, and looking great guns ! 

Of course there was an especial clause in his 
articles of service, exempting him from scaling-lad- 
ders and breach mounting. 

" Pray, sir," said my patron, " which of the orders 
of architecture do you really prefer? You must 
have a preference : all may have much merit, but 
which the most ? " 

"Pray, sir," said I in return, "uhich article of 
dress do you really prefer? Your hat, vour coat, 
breeches or boots ? All may be of use, feut which 
is most useful ? " 

" Nay sir," he replied, " you speak of things 
differing in kind. The orders are all of one kind — 
of one general form — differing only in certain deco- 
rative features. It is not, therefore, whether you 
prefer your hat to your coat ; but which of your 
hats, or which of your coats is it you prefer." 

"Taking the question," said I, "on your own 
terms, it is still not a question of preference : for it 
were scarcely less absurd to say, that you prefer 
your light straw to your beaver hat, than your hat 
to your coat. A hat is for the head, a coat for the 
body ; a light straw hat is for a hot day, a beaver 
hat for colder weather. A chintz dressing gown 
and drab box coat do not more essentially differ 
than the Corinthian and Doric orders. The prefer- 
ence of one order to another will therefore depend 
upon its superior j^Ywess. Each is the most beau- 
tiful on certain occasions ; and I grant there might 
be occasions, when either order could be used with 
good effect and critical propriety. It is, therefore, 
fit the occasion should be distinctly stated. The 
purpose of the building will possibly at once decide 
the question as regards that building alone. Should 
the building have a mixed, and undecided purpose, 


or none save that of pictorial effect, the question 
will be more open to consideration: though even 
then the nature of the site, and character of the con- 
tiguous objects must be consulted." 

Though comparisons are odious to a proverb, 
people v^ill still persist in making them. 

The orders of Greek architecture, are, like the 
plays of Shakspeare, co-equal in distinct merit, and 
each meeting with occasional preference, agreeably 
to the ever differing circumstances under which we 
peruse them. It is but a thoughtless and ignorant 
mind which would propose a comparison between 
Hamlet, Falstaffand Imogen. 

Perhaps there is no pleasure more genuine than 
that experienced by the young architect when com- 
missioned to give palpable being to some well 
studied design of his own invention. To watch its 
daily growth in solid masonry and Memel timber, 
from the basement of infancy to the chimney top of 
maturity ; feeding it constantly with working draw- 
ings, and cherishing it with paternal superin tendance ; 
witnessing with grateful pride the skill and industry 
of the numerous workmen employed on the building, 
and confidently anticipating the ultimate effect of 
the whole in its perfect state of completion. All 
this is purely delightful. We do not, on this occasion, 
admit into our consideration those several annoy- 
ances which are always more than probable. It is 
sufficient to know, that they may be possibly 
avoided ; so happy a circumstance, not being solely 
dependant upon an employer's liberality and good 
temper, but in a great measure, upon the architect 
himself, who too frequently gets into difficulty by 
neglecting to obtain a clear insight into his patron's 
meaning, and by omitting to qualify those glowing 
anticipations which " fair drawings," as they are 
termed, are too apt falsely to excite. 


Delightful, too, is the contemplation of a work, 
which, having been carried on amid the impediments 
of meddling ignorance and the censures of vulgar 
malice, now commands the admiration of the gen- 
eral spectator, and enforces silence upon the imper- 
tinent. In such contemplation did the great and 
good Sir Christopher Wren freely indulge, when, 
after his dismissal from service in the eighty-sixth 
year of his age, he took an occasional trip from 
Hampton Court to St. Paul's Church-yard. The 
majestic monument of his genius stood before him. 
It was not (ever detested be the memory of the 
babbling blockheads who thwarted him!) — it was 
not all he could have wished : but, though he knew 
it not, it was still the finest building of its class in 
the universe ; and honestly proud must he have felt, 
when he stood beneath the vaulting cavity of its 
dome, and reflected upon the singularly glorious 
chance which had appointed so pious a Chiistian as 
himself to erect such a temple to his God 1 

If it be a pleasure to behold the realization of a 
cherished design, what must be our pain in witnessing 
its subsequent destruction? The most positive 
proof that there can be no such thing as the rising 
of an angry ghost, is afforded in the destruction of 
Wanstead House. Had there been any truth in the 
theory of apparitions, and in the idea that departed 
spirits are susceptible of vexation, most unquestion- 
ably the ghost of Colin Campbell would have risen 
simultaneously with the fall of the auctioneer's 
hammer ! It is sufficiently discouraging to contemp- 
late the probabihties of earthquake, fire and civil 
broil, together with the certainty of destructive time: 
but it were surely beyond the power of philosophy 
to support an architect under the heavy affliction of 
seeing: his noblest work disappear stone by stone, as 
though it were no more than a common quarry from 


which material for ordinary building was being ab- 
stracted piece-meal ! The preservation of Wanstead 
House, in a critical sense, would have been cheaply 
purchased by the destruction of every royal palace 
in England — Windsor alone excepted. While open 
to the public view previous to its sale, a strong illus- 
tration was afforded of the utter indifference with 
which a national ornament can be regarded in com- 
parison with the superficial finery of its furniture 
and hangings. Crowds were assembled. They 
mounted the platform of its noble portico without a 
glance upwards or around. If they retreated from 
the house into the lawn, it was not to gain a fair 
view of one of the finest Palladian elevations ever 
seen : their main object was to stir up the water 
of the fish-pond with their walking sticks, or to 
gather a nosegay from one of the flower beds. I 
remember walking about for half an hour, in anxious 
hopes of hearing some remarks upon the beauty of 
the mansion ; but it was not alluded to in any way, 
save by a young lady, who energetically observed 
upon the " clearness of its reflection in the water." 
The positive building never elicited a comment ; its 
inverted semblance threw her into raptures. Thus 
Macready's Hamlet is neglected for a sight of the 
man who walks on the ceiling, and drinks port wine 
with his head downwards. 

My indentures were signed, sealed and delivered, 
and my premium paid, some time before Wanstead 
House was doomed ; otherwise — much as I loved 
her— my lady architecture would have been deserted. 
The contemplated possibility of seeing a like child 
of my own, barbarously pulled to pieces limb by 
limb, would have driven me rather to seek employ- 
ment in an excise office, than paternity in architec- 
tural alliance. But the die was cast; and, in spite 
of my horrors I am really become a "practising 

A worse case, however, than that of seeing a 
favorite design annihilated may be readily imagined. 


Let us suppose an elegant mansion transferred by 
circumstances from its original tasteful possessor to 
a vulgar and ignorant self-styled " utilitarian." 
Behold him bricking up the portico to form a counting 
house ; partitioning off the picture gallery into com- 
partments for his different stores ; attaching, to your 
pure Italian front, a wing of Carpenter's " gothic ; " 
rfe-taching your ballustrade to make way for his 
garret windows ; covering part of your enriched 
frieze with a board announcing the firm of " Grub- 
bins, Getall and Co." — No ! rather than this, let 
" castles topple on their warder's heads — and pala- 
ces and pyramids slope their heads to their founda- 
tions ! " Save me from this, beseech ye, Fates ! 


look up to me again with that s^veet smile. 
Let me still gaze into thine infant eyes 
And shroud the weary present with the past; 
Dreaming myself a child. Thy glance of love. 
Pure, artless, holy, all-confiding love, 
Is lighted with a sacred ray from Heaven 
Shining in kindness on its fairest work. 
Unstained by sin — untouched by sorrow's shade. 

Look up to me again with t!)at sweet smile ; 
It has a spell to charm away sad thoughts 
And shed a quiet o'er the troubled breast. 
— A single star-beam, in the lonely night, 
Gleaming from one blue spot of cloudless sky 
May tranquillize, with mild and silver light. 
Something on earth unsoothed by downy sleep 
And heard, amid the darkness, by its sigh. 

Look up to me again with tliat sweet smile, 

That I may live on it a little more ; 

And fix its image deep in Memory's mine, 

Where sometimes I can dwell on it in thought. 

And when a cloud of melancholy lowers 

Or secret care exerts a gloomy power, 

Thy small, sweet voice shall steal into my heart — 

I '11 look on thee again and watch thy smile. 




Concluded from page 71. 

Mrs. Eglantine (I borrow the eloquent words of her friend, Sir 
Namby Pamby) " is one of those sensitive beings, the children 
of impulse, unable to control her sympathies, and varying ever 
under the varying influences of gleam and shadow." She com- 
plains of weak health and uncertain spirits. She describes to 
you her griefs, and she describes to you lier medicines ; neither 
of them of the vulgar sort. Her all is in the tomb, or rather 
worse, out of the tomb; for it lies murdered and a-bleaching in 
the Pyrennees. But she 7?iust do her duty to society. For Mrs. 
Allington (and who knows and feels these things better?) says 
so, and tells her she must not bury herself in her loved retirement. 
Mrs. A. hopes indeed to see her make a second choice. But 
that is impossible, absolutely impossible. Mrs. Eglantine fulfils, 
therefore, a generous, painful, task to the public, and permits 
herself to be led forth before it. She begins the day, languid 
and lounging, plaintive, and platonic. As it advances her 
spirits improve. By dinner-time she assumes the attractive, 
retaining still much of the abstracted, the inconsequent, and the 
simple. But, during that exhilarating season, her reserve sub- 
sides, and she becomes very agreeable, and loves her neighbour. 
After dinner she is exceedingly confidential, and from that time 
she frankly takes her part in whatever may be the amusement of 
the evening. 

" There is nae white but hath its black." And this, even Mrs, 
Allington was doomed to find. Tier pic nic was tending to its 
close — her schemes all promising to take effect — when something, 
one of the few things over which she had no control, came to 
damp the general joy. The time for the fireworks had arrived. 
They were displayed at a distance from the house, on the opposite 
bank of a fine piece of water. Fireworks never show so well as 
when, repeated in that element, they '' float double," as the poet 
says, "squib and shadow." Water is the real place, where, 
according to the suggested Eton inscription, the pyrotechnist's 
" own fireworks are excelled." But another and a greater motive 
occupied the ample bosom of the hostess, and directed her in the 
choice of this spot. To this motive Mrs. Eglantine was party, 
and so indeed was I. By much listening and prying I had 
discovered, and had in vain tried my best to circumvent, it. It 
was agreed between Mrs. Allington and her friend that the 

112 A PIC NIC. 

latter should arrange matters with Lord D. for his elopement with 
Adelaide. And now, as I heard it whispered, the travelling 
chaise and four was waiting at the park gate nearest to the lake. 
The fond and careful mother was but to shut her eyes, and leave 
all to the widow. The other parent was supposed to be suffici- 
ently secured by his ignorance of the plot, and by the habitual, 
uninquiring indolence of his nature. But, whether from hatred, 
of Mrs. Allington, or from jealousy of Adelaide, or from a real 
good and upright feeling towards honest John, I know not ; this 
I know, that I had not failed to open his eyes and rouse his 
mind to all that was going on. And what got I for it ? Thanks , 
— yes, thanks, after a fashion; but absolutely nothing more. 
Honest John seemed scarce to hear me ; and, when urged to 
comprehend the whole extent and force of the information, little 
seemed it to interest him. Was it then possible he could 
indeed countenance by his criminal neglect so disgraceful a 

The exibition had begun. The first few bars of " God save 
the King" (imposing overture! which, much to the credit of our 
loyalty, is always appropriate on every occasion of public rejoic- 
ing, from the election of a churchwarden, upwards) sounded 
from the full band of B. bari-acks; and, already, among the 
shouts of the peasantry, the first rockets ruslied upward to the 
sky. But they were the signals only of dissappointment. The 
night had become unusually dark, the air unusually still and 
sultry. By short-sighted and sanguine mortals the latter circum- 
stance had been hailed as one of comfort to the spectators; the 
former as favourable to the effect of what they were soon to be 
dazzled withal. But after a vivid flash or too of sheeted light- 
ning, which embraced and shamed all that man could do in the 
way of coruscation, the thunder began to growl, and large, heavy 
drops were now heard to plash upon the calm, blackened water. 
And scarcely had the band, surmounting its second stanza, 
begun to give effect to the prayer of the third, " On him be 
pleased to pour ; long may he reign ;" when rain it did in right 
earnest ; and it soon poured. 

All thoughts were turned, instantly and eagerly, towards the 
house. But fear misleads judgment, and the greater part of the 
company hurried in directions wide of that which led to shelter. 
Mrs. Allington was standing in her Gothic porch distributing 
umbrellas, shawls, and cloaks, to go she knew not whither; and 
long was it ere she was joined by more than a very inconsiderable 

A PIC NIC. 113 

number of her friends. Nor was her solicitude for the general 
welfare more remarkable than her entire disinterestedness 
touching the fate of her husband and daughter. Not once did 
the name of honest John escape those lips which once had 
vowed to him so much of cherishing and of obedience; and 
when not a few friends offered to search for the general favourite, 
Adelaide, their services were declined by the mother, with an 
assurance that Adelaide was quite safe ; that Maria was com- 
fortable in a summer-house with Sir James Burton, and Julia 
snug under a tree with several young men, who would of course 
take care of her. In the general need, sundry and various were 
the destinies of each; and tedious it were to recount them. 
Suffice it to say that the Reverend Mr. Proseit, and his friend 
the colonial Jurist, faithful now in their partnership of water, as 
before of wine, were seen, together still, slowly returning, midway 
up the lawn, disdaining the pudder o'er their heads, each impris- 
oning, with tenacious gripe, a button of the other, as in act of 
argument, as he enforced, with the protruded finger of the other 
hand, his still unfinished syllogism. Lady Venena, alone still, 
and shunned of all, was providing singly for the refuge of that 
hated self, in whose comfort none but self bore any interest; 
and Mr. Docet, the tutor, mindful of classic precedent, had fled, 
like another ^.neas, 

" as Love or Fortune guides," 

with the elderly Miss Di. Doleman, to the inviting shelter of 
Dripstone Cave. 

At last the storm subsided, and the victims began to arrive, 
wet to the skin, and draggled with dirt. But that was now 
past all help. And if hot blankets, dry clothes, negus, and punch, 
had any restorative virtue, every restorative was there, and in 
plenty. Then began inquiries concerning absentees. Then did 
Mrs. Emery, maugre Mrs. Aliington's considerate efforts to stop 
her, lest she should needlessly alarm fond parents by proclaiming 
who was missing, insist on calling over the muster-roll. All, 
save three, answered to their names. These three were Adelaide, 
Mrs. Eglantine, and young Lord D. 

P>ery eye turned to Mrs. Allington — every tongue conjured 
her not to be uneasy But she, " mistress of their passions and 
her own," was perfectly at ease, and retaliated their entreaties to 
her to be composed with a corresponding command to them to 
think nothing at all about it : " Lord D. was so good-natured ; 
he would take care of her dear child, who was as safe as with 
VOL. v.— 1835. p 



her; — and was not Mrs. Eglantine there?" She even proposed 
that the dancing should recommence, if it were onlj to remove 
all chance of chill from the rain. The music was summoned 
into the hall for the young ones, and more shawls and more negus 
for the chaperons. But it would not do. The effort to renew 
the festivities was vain. No Adelaide appeared, and no Lord 
D.; and, what seemed really to surprise and annoy Mrs. Ailing- 
ton, no Mrs. Eglantine. *' She must be gone home to the 
bower," said Mrs. Allington ; " and she has taken her companions 
with her. Her judgment is so correct I cannot be uneasy." 

Morning dawned. All were tired, and glad to get Home. So 
all departed, kindly hoping that nothing fatal had happened; 
and several, in their solicitude, suggesting for consideration well 
authenticated histories of death by lightning. It was clear that 
Mrs. Allington had her own springs of comfort in her own strong 
mind. How she slept I know not, but slumber was a stranger 
to me. The more I reflected on what I had seen, the more was 
I astonished at the conduct of each of the parties concerned. I 
was at a loss which most to admire: the daring reach of the 
mother's ambition — the criminal supineness of the father — the 
heartless vanity and inconstancy of the daughter, or the officious 
interference of the female friend, for mere mischiefs sake. I 
was, however, so thoroughly out of temper with all things and 
persons, that I felt ill prepared for the scene of deep dissimula- 
tion which awaited me at the family breakfast. So I walked out, 
early, and alone, to indulge myself in bad humour and useless 

I returned about the middle of the day. More wonders: 
Mrs. Allington was in fits. Her younger daughters ministering 
salts and sympathies. Adelaide, on both knees, smiling, weeping, 
blushing, and begging pardon and a blessing, all together. 
Accompanied she was, and supported by a husband — not Lord 
D., but the playmate of her infancy, and the lover of her choice, 
Tom Burton. 

And all was soon explained. Honest John had known a trick 
worth two at least of his wife's. He had received her peremptory 
orders to shut his eyes to the elopement of his daughter. He 
had done more — he had abetted in it. He had played the prac- 
tical diplomatist. He had procured a licence, and had given his 
formal consent to the two parties the most interested, that the 
marriage should be solemnized privately, but very thoroughly, 
that morning in his own parish church. Adelaide, on the prece- 

A PIC NIC. 115 

ding night, had only appeared to elope. She had, indeed, left 
the house with Lord D. and the widow, but had returned alone, 
before the storm, and had taken refuge in her father's study, 
where she remained, alone with her father, till the canonical 
hours of the morning enabled him to give away, to his young 
friend and neighbour, a hand almost as dear to the giver as to 
the receiver. 

Poor Mrs Allington ! On the same morning, but a few hours 
later, another marriage was performed in the same church — Sir 
James Burton with Miss Carleton. Still later, in that eventful 
day, news of Mrs. Eglantine reached her dear friend at Allington 
Park. She and young Lord D. were far on their road to Scot- 
land. Poor Mrs. Allington! — her fits returned. "Well, who 
would have thought it ! Oh ! never, never was I so deceived in 
woman ! And yet, somehow, I always saw that in her which 
made me think it prudent not to repose too much confidence in 
her — the artful, unprincipled, poor, despicable, creature ! " And 
then, so sincerely did Mrs. Allington pity the poor, despicable, 
creature, that she stamped and burst into a passion of tears. 

But Mrs. Allington was not wholly unfortunate. She had 
a little feeling of gratified vengeance to enjoy. After the first 
transports of her mortification were passed, she had the merit of 
sufficiently subduing her anger to write some good news, and 
she was the first to communicate it, to her dear, sensitive, friend. 
Very late on the evening of that same day a most unexpected 
visitor arrived at Eglantine Bower, the report of whose arrival 
spreard like wildfire through the neighbourhood — Mr. Eglantine 
of that Ilk; — the supposed defunct, happily restored, lord of 
that bower; — never having been murdered at all, only detained, 
and a little the worse for a few wounds and other slight severities, 
from which, with a few month's assiduous nursing, there was 
every prospect of an entire recovery, and a long life. There, in 
the midst of his own bower, he sat him down, awaiting, with 
commendable patience, and, as the civilians have it, in animo 
maritally the return of his lady from her premature and now 
unprofitable journey to the connubial border of North Britain. 
And Mrs. Allington has not given a pic nic since. 




I AM sole relic of a line 

Whose course is with the past ; 

The rest found early graves — and mine 
Of five must be the last : 

Yet only one — she died at birth — 

Will sleep with me in native earth. 

Our eldest — his my father's skill 

To drain the cavemed mine, 
Gold fettered to her sordid will 

Where El Dorados shine : 
Their crests the giant palm-trees wave, 
Perennial, o'er my brother's grave. 

Another from the phial drank 

For Freedom's martyr-land, 
When Egypt battled with tlie Frank — 

He died by Pylos' strand : 
They laid him, by a moss-grown pile. 
On dark Sphacteria's lonely isle. 

Our youngest fell, an utter wreck 

In spirit and in form, 
Alas ! on our fair fame a speck. 

He sleeps where howls the storm. 
Death from the convict struck his chain, 
Bermuda, in thy wild domain ! 

Where that fair infant seemed to pay 

Our first fruits to the tomb, 
I love at silent eve to stray 

Beneath the umbrageous gloom ; 
And ask the night dews if they weep. 
Like me, for where their kindred sleep. 


F E E D I N G T 1 M E. 

People who are uxorioiisly affected, and young gentlemen deeply 
in love, may say what they please about comfortable fire-sides 
and secluded groves ; a seat at a public dinner table is the most 
comfortable spot in existence. You may be seated by the side 
of a journeyman pig killer, who demolishes two chickens, bones 
and all, with the best part of a ham, in less than ten minutes : — 
but what of that ? You also may eat enough to serve you for a 
fortnight to come, there is no restriction ; legs of mutton are as 
plentiful as blackberries, and the fragrance of roast beef arises on 
all sides. You may be placed opposite a forge bronzed black- 
smith, who tucks up his sleeves that he may the more conveni- 
ently denude the rib of an ox, wolf like, with his grinders; and 
afterwards pokes the gristly fragments from between his tusks 
with a fork : — this is no business of yours, mind your own plate. 
You may be in juxta position with a purse-proud candle maker, 
who takes every possible care to intimate that you have intruded 
between the wind and his nobility — upsets your glass — thrusts 
his elbow into your eye — and looks as if he expected you to beg 
his pardon . Never mind , it 's a trial of your philosophy, apologize 
to him, and recollect that, when a school boy, you often wrote 
as a round hand copy — *' Patience is a virtue.'' 

Englishmen, like the wild beasts in the Zoological Society's 
collection, are exhibited to most advantage at feeding time. That 
unity of purpose which renders Britons invincible at sea and 
unconquerable on land may be observed in their gastronomic 
operations; harmoniously carnivorous and socially bibulous they 
go to work with an intenseness of energy which is highly poetic. 
Their elongated and bluish countenances, if the viands are 
delayed beyond the appointed time, show how unanimously are 
they eager for the fray ; and their disinclination to wait for any 
such prelude as saying grace evinces that it is no joke, but really 
and truly war to the knife : gash after gash must be made into 
flesh of some denomination — a boiled elephant would be famous 
eating, at such times, if one may judge from the tenderness and 
succulency of a slice from the under side of the lumbar vertebrof. 

The more mixed the operators at a public dinner are, the more 
glorious will be the fun thereat : if ever variety be charming it is 
surely in such a case. Philosophers, who would study mankind 
unsophisticated by sobriety, should be regular attendants at 
public dinners : when the grog is well in, most of the wit may 


be subdued, but some of the truth at least will get out, which is 
a highly important matter. It is rather surprisins: that pliilo- 
sophical societies, whose professed object is tlie attainment or 
investigation of truth, have never thought of making the disputants 
drunk before they commenced the discussion of any important 
point; and forbidding the use of all manner of tea, from Bohea 
to Gunpowder, inclusive, as that pernicious gift which the Hong 
merchants have sent us from the Celestial empire, has been 
considered, time out of mind, a great provocative of scandal, 
which is generally but another name for untruth. 

Thehumourcommences long before dinner, and, if the company 
be expected to muster strong, it will not be amiss to take a post 
near the inn door, about an hour before the time for opening it. 
Some ingenuous observations may be made, by the himgry group, 
worth hearing. 

" I say. Smith, what time is the dinner ready ? " 

"Not till six o' clock ; and I 'm blessed if I have n't been 
waiting here ever since two, to get a good place." 

** Well that 's coming the Quality hours, is n't it ? and, after 
waiting such a time, see if I can't do a decent tuck-out : if I do 
n't get a skinful, it 's my own fault, and my name *s not Jim.** 

" 1 guess I feel rather queerish in the inside ; I have n't made 
use of any thing since yesterday." 

" 'Pon me conscience, Misther Casey, i 've just got an appe- 
tite that 'd ate the head of a horse, every taste of id ; to be sure 
I 'd prefer it byled a thrifle, or stewed with some kidney purtay- 
ties, an' a dhrop o' whiskey to keep it from risin' in me stumuch.'* 

**Thrue for you, Doolan, me honey, and it 's myself that 
would be mighty glad to lend you a hand in atin' some of that 
same, for sorro' the bit of any thing has crossed me lips this 
blessed day, barrin' a sup o' rum that Misses Phillips gave me 
when I brought her tlie bag o' coals." 

" Now, Jack, mind what I tell 'e; stand by me and I '11 stand 
by you, d' ye see, we '11 get opposite the biggest piece of roast 
beef in the room, and divvle a soul shall have any of it but our 
own two selfs." 

"That's all very well to talk, Ned, but I do n't see why we 
should n't get some'at better nor that ere ; let 's look out for a 
turkey or a whacking fine goose, about ten pound weight, I '11 
contrive somehow to cut it in two, and to put one half on my 
plate and the other on yours, no body can be so uncivil as to ask 
for any of it then, I know." 


" I tells you, Moshes, itsh an unposhibility to eat two shillin's 
vorth o' wittles at vonce, and I paid dat mosh monies for my 
ticket; she it 'II be quite fair to put as mosh as I can into me 
pockets. I can shell it to Levi to-morrow, or perhapsh he '11 
give me someting in exshange for it." 

"Hollo! Smith, who 'd ha' thought of seeing you here? I 
wish you luck and hope you have a good appetite." 

*^ My dear fellow, its not amiss, considering that I 've just 
dined, I would n't give a button for the dinner, but we shall 
have some prime speechifying after it." 

The door is open at last — and what a rush ! There is some 
comfort however in being fairly carried up a flight of sixty steps, 
without ever touching a deal board, and being safely landed in 
the neighbourhood of a roast fowl. Hunger is a famous stimulus : 
all escalades should be made when the garrisons are getting 
dinner ready, and the assaulters Englishmen. 

Well, all are comfortably seated, provender is abundant; the 
guests are in a hungry case as aforesaid, and the mere sight of so 
many good things has screwed up the appetite to such a pitch 
that the force of patience, can no farther go, sundry persons are 
already at work recreating the carnal man. 

" Gentlemen — gentlemen ! pray wait a few moments ; our 
respected chairman has not yet taken his place — I hope you will 
not commence dining till grace has been said, and the band 
plays up the * Roast beef of old England.' " 

" We beg pardon, sir, but we were only carving the joint to 
save time afterwards." * 

*' I cannot allow any thing to be carved till grace has been 

^* That 's what I call the genteel thing," said a voracious 
looking large man, whilst he was very deliberately shaking out 
a couple of reefs from his waistcoat; " Let 's all start fair." 

*' Pass the word along the table for somebody that knows a 
grace, is there ever a person at this table what 'il say grace ? " 

" Nonsense, nonsense, sir, do pray be orderly, the chairman 
will say grace of course." 

" That 's very fine words, Mr. Steward, but you do n't consider 
that the wedgertables are cold already." 

A deafening round of applause hinted that the chairman was 
taking his seat; grace followed, and the band discoursed most 
excellent music on the subject of grilled oxen. Then arose the 
busy sound of multitudinous knives and forks, like the everlasting 


clatter of liorse shoes on a huge piece of earthenware : eacii table 
presented a vista of most eager faces, earnestly gazing on the 
savoury messes before them ; hundreds of hands were passing 
too and fro in quest of the most relishing mouthfuls, and waiters 
innumerable were continually adding to the already superabun- 
dant stock of provisions. 

" Allow me to help you to the legs of this goose, sir," whis- 
pered a wicked looking wag to an aged labourer beside him 
—who had just finished a fourth plateful of beef-steak picj 
duly qualified with potatoes. 

" Thank e, sir, I think I could pick a bit more." 

These being demolished, and a decent quantity of plum-pud- 
ding sent down after them, the latter speaker enquires, 

** Is there any thing at the other end of the table that I have 
not tasted yet ? " 

" O, yes, my good friend, here 's some cheese, some celery, 
some butter, and a small loaf." 

These were also annihilated by the old man, who still seemed 
nothing loth to add to his cargo. 

"Could not you get me a little more of that salery, sir? it 's 
very nice." 

" I *m sorry it 's all gone/' said his neighbour, who was almost 
convulsed in endeavouring to restrain outrageous laughter, " but 
here 's some very fine parsley which is much better." 

The garnish of three or four dishes was quickly sent below, to 
establish a fellowship with the goose legs, and the operator was 
at length obliged to exclaim " Hold ! enough." But evidently 
much against his grain. 

Through the zeal of amateur carvers, many a good joint of 
smoking mutton and juicy beef, after pirouetting across the table, 
sought repose in the lap of some innocent citizen, who, being 
green in such matters, had the consideration to endue himself 
with his holyday inexpressibles for the occasion. Numerous 
praiseworthy exertions were made to cut through the bone, by 
those who were unconscious that sheep and bullocks had joints ; 
and sundry very handsome waistcoats were newly dyed with very 
delicious looking gravy. 

*< I say, Mr. Peters, I do n't much relish that joke, you 've 
stuck your fork three inches into the calf of my leg." 

"On my soul I did n't intend it, Jenkins— my roll fell down, 
and I mistook your white stocking for it under the table. I really 
beg your pardon." 


" This is the divil's own quare soop ; I have n*t finished one 
plateful, and it goes against my stumuch intirely." 'q 

" I do n't wonder at it, Sir." 

" Sure you do n*t think there 's pyson in it — eh ? It tastes for 
all the world as if the cook made a mistake and put in pigtail 
instead of leeks." 

" Could n't you see, that they sent it up here from the other 
end of the table, because that fat gentleman, with a blind eye, 
dropped his snuff box into it, by accident, whilst he was taking 
a pinch ?'' 

" Nick, I '11 trouble you for some of the gravy of that pie/' 

" I want some myself, too, but there is not a single spoon on 
this table." s ^m-; 

" Well, knock the foot off that salt-cellar, and put the salt into 
Smith's tumbler of porter, whilst he 's groping under the table 
for his toothpick — You must learn to make shift sometimes.'' 

After dinner comes the consideration of wine and grog ; some 
sober people evacuate their seats altogether and travel homeward 
for a cup of tea : some would aid chymification with the fumes 
of a cigar; and divers groups may be noted consulting on the 
most economical method of splicing the main brace. 

" What 's the use of paying sixpence a glass, here, for grog; 
when we can get it at the * Crown and Anchor,' or the * Pig 
and Thunderbolt,' for fourpence, come, come along. What 's 
the use of paying the price of three glasses for two ? " 

Many in calculating without their host, had a notion that the 
two shilling tickets for dinner would not only afford them an 
opportunity of laying in a good store of solids, but also of getting 
glorious with potations, pottle deep, of wine, afterwards. . 

'* Waiter, I '11 trouble you for a bottle of wine." 

" Port or Sherry, Sir ? " 

" O ! I 'm not particular, which ever is handyest." 

" Three and sixpence, if you please. Sir ? " 

" Three and sixpence ! I 've paid two shillings already for a 
dinner ticket." 

" We do n't give wine with dinner, Sir." 

" Well, never mind, I 'm not difficult to please, bring me a 
jug of grog." 

^* Rum or gin. Sir ? " 

"Why, rum— I think." 

" Eighteen pence, Sir,— please ? " 
VOL. v.— 1835. Q 



" Here 's a go ! Give neither wine nor grog with a dinner that 
you charge two shillings for. What do you give then ? '' 

" Nothing but beer, sir/' 

" Well, bring me some beer." 

" None to be had now, sir, it *s all drunk.** 

The disappointed guest was, however, furnished with a jug of 
beer from another table, by a good natured neighbour, but as his 
tumbler had been removed with the cloth, he used his wine glass 
as deputy; and by its means contrived to empty the jug during 
the evening. 

The usual toasts being disposed of, the Chairman's health is 

"Hip! hip! hip! Hoo-riia-a — Hoo-raa— Hoo-raa — Hoo-raa!" 
Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. Ditto. 

Ditto. ' Ditto. Ditto. ml libitum. 

[the chairman returns thanks.] 

Gentlemen, (cheers) gentlemen, (tremendous cheers) gentlemen, 
(thunders of applause) gentlemen, I can hardly — I know — (hem) 
that is, gentlemen, I cannot find ideas for my words, in thanking 
you for the great — (hem) that is, the very high and handsome 
manner in which my health has been drunk by every honorable 
man in this very honorable company. Gentlemen, if any person 
ever felt their hearts so enlarged with emotion as to resemble a 
sea, which completely blocked up, that is to say, restrained and 
bridled his words — those persons, I say, gentlemen, can know 
what I now feel on this important occasion ; (cheers) gentlemen, 
I can safely say that I have always based my actions on integrity, 
that great pinnacle of the arch of life, which, like the sun at 
noon day, shines with Aurora's brightness, (tremendous cheering 
and cries of "we know you have.") Gentlemen, I feel that I 
would be wanting in all — (hem) in every — (hem) in all true — 
(hem) that is, I mean, gentlemen, in all that is — (hem, hem) but 
I am afraid gentlemen that — that, I, I am intruding upon your 
invaluable time, and unnecessarily taxing your patience, (loud 
applause, with cries of " No, no." " Bravo." " Hear him." " Go 
on." "Go on sir.") Gentlemen, you know that Rome was not built 
in a day, and you know that the pass of Thermopylee was not 
yieklod to the Persians till all but two of the three hundred had 
perished. Gentlemen, let us, like the brave Lacedemonians, 
stand by our guns while a shot remains in our locker, and nail 
our flag to the mast, (cheers and exclamations " We will," " we 
will.") Gentlemen; 1 was going to say that 1 thought I could 


venture to cherish a dream of certainty that, whilst 1 am your 
chairman ; — I mean, gentlemen, that whilst each person, I address 
is unanimously of one mind, that all the world cannot restrain 
your honorable designs. Gentlemen, I really feel, from the 
very bottom of my soul, that I am — (hem, hem) really, gentlemen, 
my feelings overpower me ; (tremendous cheers) and, gentlemen, 
I will do you the honour of drinking your very good health; — 
(hem) that is, gentlemen, before I sit down, I will do myself the 
honour of drinking your healths." (loud applause) 

When the wine and grog begin to tell, the natural philosopher 
may commence making observations on the various phenomena 
which present themselves, as the patients are progressing towards 
the great crisis : they are comfortable, exhilarated, merry, chatty, 
joyous, voluble, glorious, oratorical, vocal, valiant, top-heavy, 
pugnacious, outrageous. The line of direction has a wonderful 
propensity to fall without the base ; and each bacchanal has a 
surprising notion that his neighbour's lap is the most convenient 
place to rest in. Some few content themselves with a birth on 
the floor ; till, after being walked on, tumbled over, and kicked 
about, for half an hour, they crawl under the table; where their 
melancholy moans and stentorious gruntings, are drowned for a 
time by the uproar of such companions as are doing their best to 
get into a similar condition. 

Order, of course, walks out as soon as the brandy and port get 
in ; and those who would restore tranquillity contrive to make 
five times more noise than all the rest of the assemblage : — 
" Order, gentlemen." " Chair, chair." " Sit down, gentlemen." 
'* Tell that long man, with the hole in his elbow, to take off his 
hat." " Order, order, pray gentlemen order." " Be so good, sir, as 
to stand down off the table." " Chair, chair." "O ! Ned, you 
thief, you 've drunk my jug of grog, and filled it with water." 
"Order, order." 

" Pray, Mr. Bullsnipe, what did you — (hiccough) mean by 
saying that I so — (hie.) old my vote ? Sir, I ^11 have — (hie.) you 
to know — (hie.) that I wants satisfac — (hie.) action." 

" I can assure you, my dear friend, that my observations 
referred to you in your public and political capacity, solely.*^ 

" Did n't you, when you made your — (hie.) speech, say that 
I was a traitor, and a scou — (hie.) oundrel ? " 

" Yes, but, my dear fellow, nothing personal was intended — 
pray do n't strangle me — no personal offence was meant, I only 
spoke on public grounds." 

124 TO THE WIDOW ^ ^ ^ ^, 

" Well take that — and that — and that. You see I can knock 
an honest friend down — though I 'm — (hie.) drun — (hie.) runk. 
And when you look at your — (hie.) black eye to morrow, in the 
gla — (hie.) ass, remember there 's nothing personal in it, it refers 
solely to your public and political capa — (hie.) acity." 


TO THE WIDOW » » » ♦. 

Hear me now forswear the sins 

That in the last two years I did do ; 

Wide I roved, 

But seldom loved : 
Alas ! I knew not you, sweet widow. 

When I deemed each suit was won 
Backwards all my best hopes slid, O ! 

Let me not sue. 

In vain to you, 
While kneeling at your feet, fair widow. 

I know your last was tall and strong. 
Your first all other men outdid, O ! 

Make me the fourth, 

And prove me worth. 
The three together; charming widow. 

Others' eyes have falsehood's tears ; 

But 'neath your smile-enclosing lid, O ! 

What can play 

But Love's bright ray ? 
Share its light with me, dear widow. 

And never more 'till grim death come 
This true breast of its life to rid, O ! 
Shall aught delight. 
By day or night, 
But you, my blithe and buxom widow. 

Leon . 



Flame is considered as the most perfect modification of combus- 
tion, that is to say, gaseous bodies, in combustion combine 
with more avidity, and produce a much higher temperature, than 
solid bodies. 

The principal properties recognised in gaseous combustion, or 
as it has been termed. Flame, are heat and light — and it will be 
the object of the following remarks, to endeavour to explain or 
investiojate some of the causes which produce and modify these 

On examining the flame of any burning body, it appears to 
consist of two parts ; first, a white cone of bright light, and 
secondly, an outer casing of faint red light, producing intense 
heat. Some have included the dark hollow centre of the flame 
as a third part, but rather improperly, since the term flame can 
only be applied to those parts where combustion is immediately 
going on. On examining the properties of these two portions of 
the flame, they are found to differ considerably. The inner one, 
or that from which the light proceeds, gives out, comparatively, 
but little heat ; — whilst the outer thin film, the light of which is. 
almost eclipsed by the brilliancy of the other, is found to produce 
a very intense degree of heat. 

The writer is induced to suppose, that light is not an essen- 
tial product of combustion. That it always accompanies gaseous 
combustion cannot be denied ; but this appears to arise from the 
admixture of heterogeneous solid matter, either in the atmosphere 
or in the gaseous matter, undergoing combustion ; and there is 
every reason to suppose, that if by any means the presence of 
these solid particles could be prevented, gaseous bodies would 
combine, and produce heat without light. 

The light given out by flame appears to depend upon two 
causes: first, the quantity of solid matter contained in it and 
ignited, and, secondly, the heat producing this ignition. 

Attempts have been made to show that light and heat, and 
heat and light are in an inverse ratio : but this, on examination, 
will be found to be erroneous ; for although there are many cases 
in which much heat is produced, with very little light, in conse- 
quence of the paucity of solid matter; still there are otlier cases 
where solid matter is present in which both light and heat are 
extremely feeble. For example — carbonic oxide burns with a 
lambent blue flame, and produces but very little heat. The heat 

126 FLAME. 

appenrs to arise from the great energy of the con>bination. Now 
in the case of carbonic oxide, its disposition to combine with 
oxygen is but limited, in consequence of the carbon contained in 
it, being already half saturated with that gas ; the remaining 
energy of combination, therefore, does not produce a degree of 
temperature sufficient to ignite the solid matter contained in it 
to any considerable extent. 

The energy exerted in the combination of hydrogen with 
oxygen is amazingly intense; and here, as might be expected, 
the heat is the greatest ; as may be shown by igniting a mixture 
of these gases, at the jet of the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe. In this 
flame platina melts, boils, and burns ; pumice stone, pipe clay, 
quartz, granite, &c. vitrify immediately. The appearance of this 
flame is very insignificant, and the light extremely feeble ; and it 
is even probable that the light which is produced arises merely 
from the ignition of extraneous solid matter, of which we have at 
present no means of divesting it. 

That the light produced by any flame depends on the high 
degree of ignition of the solid matter contained in it, is evident 
from this : — If the flame of the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe, be made 
to pass through or act upon the ignited portion of otlier flames, 
the light will be increased. For instance — if we cause the flame 
from the blowpipe to play immediately upon the bright portion 
of the flame of a common candle, the light will become greater 
in consequence of the higher degree of ignition produced in the 
charcoal contained in solution. Tiie same eflect niay be more 
strikingly produced, by treating the flames of turpentine or 
camphor in the same manner. The energy exerted in combustion, 
by the gaseous matter of these substances, only producing a 
limited degree of temperature. Here then an increase of heat 
produces an increase of light. 

Again — the light of a flame depends greatly upon the nature 
of the solid matter contained in it ; those substances giving the 
greatest light whose particles are capable of sustaining the 
greatest heat, prior to entering into combination; thus we find 
sulphur combined with hydrogen gives but a feeble blue flame, 
in consequence of the low degree of temperature necessary to 
volatilize tins substance; while hydrogen combined with carbon 
gives a brilliant light, increasing in proportion to the quantity of 
carbon contained in the flame, in consequence of the high degree 
of temperature capable of being sustained by this substance 
before combination. Phosphorus, gives out an extremely 

flamh:. 127 

brilliant light in combustion. This light is further increased by 
the fixed and dense nature of the phosphoric acid which is 
produced. This substance, unlike the gaseous products in the 
two former instances, is a solid incombustible substance, capable 
of being ignited to an extremely high point, without decompo- 

Thus we perceive, that as the light is derived from the ignition 
of solid matter, and as these solid bodies are only held in solution 
by gases in definite proportions, our chief aim should be, so to 
conduct the process of combustion as to produce the highest 
degree of temperature without the actual combustion of the solid 

Although by some it may be deemed superfluous, yet, since 
much depends on the true meaning of the terms ignition and 
combustion, it will not be amiss here to point out, the distinction 
between them. If we take a piece of lime, or a common brick, 
and heat it to redness, it will be found that its properties will not 
be altered, for it will resume its former appearance on cooling : 
this is ignition. If, on the other hand, we submit a piece of 
wood to the action of fire, we perceive that, immediately on arriv- 
ing at a certain temperature, its properties suddenly alter; it 
becomes black ; and heat and light are copiously evolved from 
it: this is combustion. Great regard should be paid to these 
two peculiar states of bodies, as the light depends entirely on the 
ignition, and not the combustion ; because when the combustion 
is most perfect, and the solid matter entirely consumed, the light 
is least. For example, if we allow a jet of carburetted hydrogen 
gas to burn as it issues from the pipe, the light produced is ^ 
brilliant, but only in that part in which the carbon is ignited 
without entering into combustion ; for in those parts where the 
combustion is most perfect, that is to say, in those parts which 
are immediately in contact with the atmosphere, the light is very 
feeble. In order to prove this, it is only necessary to insert a 
piece of metal, so thick as not to be readily heated, in the midst 
of the bright flame; this will conduct away the heat so rapidly 
as to defend from its action the carbon, which will consequently 
become deposited in abundance on the surface of the metal. If 
the piece of metal be now applied to the apex of the flame no 
charcoal will be deposited, in consequence of its having entirely^ 
combined with oxygen, and become converted into carbonic 

128 FLAME. 

Again ; if we allow the gas which issues from the jet to be 
intimately mixed with atmospheric air before combustion, no 
charcoal will be given off by the flame, the light of which will 
be feeble, though the heat will be very intense. In this case the 
combustion is perfect, every portion of the carbon being brought 
into contact with sufficient oxygen for its saturation before under- 
going combustion : but here, perhaps, it may be asked, Is not the 
charcoal ignited ? and, if so, Why does it not give out light ? 
This may be easily explained. In the case of the simple jet, the 
carbon is ignited in an atmosphere of hydrogen, »and does not 
come immediately into contact with the oxygen of the atmosphere, 
except in the outer red casing, where it immediately enters into 
combustion, gives out much heat, and looses its light. 

If in the combustion of carburetted hydrogen gas, we supply 
the gas too quickly, or the air too slowly, the combustion will be 
imperfect, the hydrogen of the compound will by its superior 
attraction, seize on the oxygen ; but the temperature produced 
by its combustion will be insufficient to ignite the whole of the 
charcoal; part of it will therefore fly off unconsumed, producing 
smoke. This may be easily shown by an argand gas burner; in 
this instrument the cylindrical flame of gas, being supplied 
within and without with a current of atmospheric air, is burning 
under the most favorable conditions; but, if the aperture which 
admits air to the inner surface be stopped, the flame immediately 
becomes smoky ; the quantity of air supplied to the outer surface 
being insufficient for the entire combustion of the whole of the 
charcoal, which consequently flies off in smoke. 

Tliat the liglit of flame is derived from the solid substance 
combined with it, is further shewn by the colour of the light vary- 
ing with the nature of the substance used : for example, lime and 
strontian communicate a red or crimson colour to flame; barytes, 
a green; soda, yellow; copper and borax, green. 

Now as the light given out b} the substances held in solution 
entirely depends upon the degree of ignition capable of being sup- 
ported by those substances, without their entering into combus- 
tion, it is evident that in these cases the intensity of the light can 
never exceed a certain point : it is not, however, absolutely ne- 
cessary that the solid matter employed to produce the light should 
be held in solution in the flame : it is quite sufficient that flame 
at a high temperature should be caused to act upon solid matter. 
Here tlien we have an endless variety of substances for experiment ; 


and itjwill be found that the principle just stated, namely, that 
the light is in proportion to the incombustible nature of the 
ignited solid matter, will hold good to any extent: — for it will be 
seen, on submitting different substances to the action of the 
powerful flame of the oxy-hydrogen blowpipe, that the light 
given out by^them will increase as their temperature increases, 
until it arrives at that point when they either enter into combustion, 
or melt, boil and evaporate — those bodies giving out the most 
light which require the highest temperature for this. Lime and 
magnesia are the most refractory substances with which we are 
acquainted, being almost infusible by the most intense heat of the 
oxy-hydrogen blowpipe; from these bodies, consequently, the 
greatest degree of light is produced, and its gradual increase may 
be observed to keep pace with its temperature, arriving at such a 
degree of intensity as to cast a bold shadow of any object in the 
strongest sunshine ; — therefore it may be deduced, that the light 
of flame does not directly proceed from the combustion itself, but 
merely from the ignition produced in solid matter by the heat 
resulting from that combustion. 

But whence this^light originates ; whether it may be considered 
as a component part of the solid matter in which it may exist in 
a latent state, and be only rendered evident by the action of cal- 
oric ; or whether caloric itself, by being absorbed by a combus- 
tible body, becomes converted into light, it is neither within the 
province of this paper nor the power of the writer to determine. 

J. N. H. 

To be continued. 


I feel Thee, when the breeze is sweet, 
And, in the fields, Thy presence meet. 
I see Thy power in insect form, 
And worship Thee amidst the storm, 
I praise Thee when I rest at night : 
I bless Thee for the morning's light. 
I thank Thee for thy favors given ; 
And hope to see thy face — in Heaven. 

M. A. P. 

VOL. v.— 1835. 



It is a characteristic peculiar to Falconer's ship- 
wreck, that the author and his work, the seaman 
and the poet, are closely and intimately united. 
The discrimination of Virgil gave to the mouth of 
iEneas, a narrative of the scenes and dangers in 
which he himself had borne so large a part. Now 
Falconer's situation exquisitely coincided with tliis 
beauty ; and our poet, in the plaintive motto of his 
work, intimates that he too had been exposed to all 
the complicated horrors he so forcibly and patheti- 
cally describes. The young sailor had been left at 
Alexandria, in Egypt ; where, in fact, he had lately 
joined the ill fated vessel. The classic grounds for 
his assuming the name of Arion, are touched with 
much feeling. The hint previously given in the 
motto is then confirmed. 

" This la<t our tragic story from the wave 
Of (lark oblivion haply yet may save." 

With the exception, however, here noticed, the 
soil on which our poet came, ** muse inspired," to 
labour, appeared every thing but promising. It 
seems recognised both by poets and critics, that a 
good epic should terminate successfully. Lucan's 
Pharsalia is, I believe, the only classic exception to 
this rule on record : Falconer's catastrophe is 
necessarily of the same kind. In one place, after 
beautifully touching on the design and influence of 
poetry in general, he notices this defect. His was a 
tale of the storm, and little else ; a narrative of the 
same dangers, a repetition of nearly the same vain 
efforts to avert them. The masters of the elder song 
had, he confesses, been sometimes engaged on such 
topics. — 

*"The mournful harp of yore 
Wept the sad wanderer lost upon the shore." 

Yet with a vast difference in their main object ; with 
them the wreck was merely episodical, with him it 
was the groundwork of his tale. — 

falconer's shipwreck. 131 

But Falconer had yet other difficulties to combat ; 
his was a poem of real life, and that again as it 
appeared at the time of writing : as such it is natu- 
rally restricted in the use of imagery. The critics 
hold that a good poet may improve on, but not con- 
trovert, the popular belief of his date. 

To subject the "Shipwreck" to this canon — In 
Virgil the pilot falls overboard, and is lost, the 
accident being brought about by supernatural causes : 
Falconer's period confined him to simpler expedients. 
Father Bossu, speaking of the poet of the Odyssey, 
remarks, that nothing can be more natural than 
making it turn on the dangers of the sea. But in 
all its subordinate parts. Homer enjoyed ampler 
range to diversify the simplicity of his fable. Who 
will not observe how much Falconer is straightened 
by the sad realities of his tale ? 

- The proposal of the subject, while the poet and 
his harp are alone by the sea shore is made finely in 
accordance with these : and the invocation that follows 
is conceived in terms the most sublime and awful. 
His appeal is made by the roaring of the blast, and 
" because of the noise of the water pipes." 

" By the long surge that foams through yonder cave 
Whose vaults remurmur." 

The main action of the piece commences with 
Arion being startled from a dream. Childe Harold 
has been dreaming: of his daughter : — 

" Waking with a start 
The waters rage around me, and on high 
The floods lift up their voices." 

The seaman's vision is appropriately broken by the 
call of duty and the boatswain's whistle : — 

"All hands unmoor! ! ! " 
" The Skimmer of the Seas," in Cooper's novel 
under that title, and the Grab as described in " The 
Adventures of a younger son," both wear about them 
more or less of a romantic feature. Falconer steadily 
rejects all such ornament ; his ship is an English 
merchantman of that date and nothing more. 


But let us see the Bounty, in the South Seas, an 
hour before the mutiny. 

" The cloven billow flashed from off her prow 
/ In furrows foimed by that majestic plough." 

Or the vessel in the Corsair — 

** Speed on her prow and terror in her tier." 

Few will dispute either the correctness or splendour 
of those images ; but Falconer unites the imagination 
of the poet with a sailor's pride in his vessel. 

** She moves in trim array 
Like some fair virgin on her bridal day." 

The author's penetration — why not say his heart ? 
— suggested to him that a tale of the softer passions 
should give interest to his work. Thomson's storm 
in summer, would not have been half so interesting 
without the story of the two lovers : a similar charm 
IS thrown over the "Shipwreck," by the episode of 
Palemon and Anna. The Lady Love is the only 
daughter of Albert, the ship master ; the youth is 
son to the owner of the vessel — whose expostulation 
and final resolve to send Palemon to sea, introduce 
their parting interview. The sorrow of Palemon, 

" Mingled with deep passion 
For the sweet downcast virgin ;" 

And the fond expostulation of the maiden, 

" With anguish in her angel face," 
Are oiven with exquisite pathos. 

Parting scenes have ever been favorite themes 
with poets. Ossian tells us that the eve of an expe- 
dition, was always dedicated to the song of bards. 
" Sing on, O ! bards," says the King of Morven, " to- 
morrow we lift the sail" — Still more beautiful is the 
thought in " the Island." 

*' To morrow for the Mooa we depart 

But not to night,— to night is for the heart." 

Observe how Falconer enters on such a subject, 
the Vessel, he says, 

"The vessel parted on the falling tide; 

Vet Time ouf sa( red hour to I.ove supplied ; — 

, ON falconer's shipwreck. 133 

Impatient Hope the midnight path explored 
And led me to the nymph my soul adored." * 

" Ossian/' says Dr. Blair, " almost never express- 
es himself in the abstract/' his hill is the hill of 
Cromla ; his storm that of the Lake of Lego ; a mode 
of expression highly favorable to descriptive poetry. 
Falconer's work abounds in beauties of this class ; 
his clouds rest on Mount Ida ; — a ruin on the shore 
is the tomb of Jupiter, and the last point of the 
coast Cape Spado. May I venture another remark 
in this place? — The season of the year at which the 
^^ Shipwreck" occurs — " when sailing was now dan- 
gerous," as well as other local and atmospherical 
particulars, forcibly remind us of the voyage and 
wreck of the apostle Paul. 

As in the writings of Homer — and especially of 
our own Shakspeare-:— the characters of the shipwreck 
bear a marked diversity ; — each one is essentially 
different from the other. 

The chief mate, Rodmond's disposition claims 
our praise for candour rather than amenity. 

" Blunt was his speech and naked was his heart." 

That this picture was drawn to, as well as from, 
nature, I can readily conceive. The school in which 
this first rate seaman had been bred, was then pro- 
ducing a Cook ; and in both cases the talents of the 
sailor seem to have been shaded by austerity in the 

* Notwithstanding the beauty of this Episode, I venture on 
classing among the defects of the poet's fable that its action is 
almost necessarily devoid of the charm of female life; — and yet 
this makes a good figure on shipboard, witness the 2nd Canto of 
Marmion. Sir W. Scott archly unites, with the wonder of the 
nuns in their novel situation, the coquetry natural to their sex. 

" One eyed the shrouds and swelling sail, 


Another at the snrge grew pale, 


And one would still adjust her veil 
Disorder'd by the summer gale." 

" Perchance because such action graced 
A fair turned arm and slender waist." 


" But see ! in confluence borne before the blast, 
Clouds roird on clouds." 

The wind which had been increasing, with squalls, 
all day, becomes a gale towards evening ; Nature 
and Truth are never at variance. The Corsair's atten- 
dant is surprised at the suddenness of the order to 
weigh anchor. 

" To night Lord Conrad ? — aye, at set of sun : 
The breeze will freshen when the day is done." 

I notice the shoal of porpoises in this place, as it 
affords a comparison with the noble author just 

Lord Byron's picture is that of a vessel just 
before sunrise in fine weather ; — 

"The dolphins, not unconscious of the day, 
Swam high, as eager of the coming ray." 

But Falconer sets before us the porpoises rolling 
themselves along, in the manner peculiar to those 
fish, as something more than merely adjunct to the 
scene: they are aptly made to indicate the approach 
of foul weather ; 

"Tlieir rout sagacious form 
To shun the fury of the approaching storm." 

Would any view, a sketch of this kind as height- 
ened by the resources of Greek mythology ? let him 
look at Amphitrite and her train in the 4th book of 

The incidents of a voyage are almost uniform ; 
with little relief from the ordinary routine of a ship's 
duty ; we cannot therefore but admire the art with 
which Falconer has contrived to diversify his narra- 
tive. Besides the instance given above, the sea view 
in one place is enlivened by a waterspout and the 
means taken to destroy it; — ^just after we have the 
beauties of a dying dolphin faithfully and vividly 
pourtrayed. I say faithfully, though in the only case 
that lias fallen under my observation, the poet's col- 
oring mioht perhaps wear a hue in advance of nature. 
But what say the critics ? The poet's province is to 
embellish nature — to give her features an attraction 

LINES. 135 

they do not possess in the eye of common observers : 
— " His ocean must be more varied with islands, 
more splendid with shipping and more agitated by 
storms than as it exists in reality." 

To be continued. 


Bending before the symbol of her creed, 

In holiness of heart, she kneeled to pray ; 

Devotion on her pale and lofty brow 

Sate like a tranquil glory. On her cheek 

A tear, that gushed unbidden from its cell, 

Lay like a star-lit dew drop on the rose. 

From her mild-beaming eye raised up to Heaven 

Flowed forth a speaking look — a silent prayer — 

More eloquent than words. Thus she, whose soul 

Was innocent as aught of life on earth, 

Sought pardon for her sin, I could have gazed, 

Untiring, on that loveliness ; till rapt 

With too much beauty — like the Egyptian seer 

Who found an idol in some radiant star — 

Love became Adoratimi. 

* iff ***-*-* * 

Ere her strain 
Of fervent supplication died away 
One name was uttered, with a faltering tone; 
As though her bosom trembled lest the Night, 
With its still ear, might hear that cherished sound. 
O, Passion's strength ! as yet *t was but a flame 
Of mortal power : but then my heart confessed 
A holier feeling that has lived through time 
And darkening change — itself alone unchanged. 





January 8th. — Mr. W. Walker*s Lecture on Geological 
Changes resulting from Meteorological Agency. 

Resumed from page 90. 

The depths to which man had penetrated below the earth's 
surface, bore so small a proportion to the distance from the 
surface to the centre, that all our excavations and mining opera- 
tions might be considered as so many scratches on the earth's 
external crust. Those portions of the solid surface that have 
been examined by geologists, consist of series of layers, or strata, 
arranged in a certain determinate order which is never inverted ; 
the lower series being of a somewhat more compact nature than 
the superincumbent mass. Geologists have classed these 
successive layers of rocks into three grand divisions, namely 
primary, secondary, and tertiary formations ; and tliese are 
again subdivided; the primary formation consists of granite, 
slate, porphyry, and other hard rocks, traversed by metallic veins, 
but without any traces of organic remains. The secondary 
formations rest upon the primary, and consist of sandstone, 
limestone, clay, coal, iron-stone, chalk, Sec, these strata contain 
fragments of more ancient strata, corals, marine shells, and 
bones of animals now extinct. The tertiary series consist of clay, 
limestone, gravel, sand, alluvion, and vegetable soil ; with petri- 
fied organic remains of some extinct fishes, animals, and plants, 
imbedded in the lower members of the series ; and near the 
surface, remains of amphibia, land and aquatic animals, and 
plants of the same species, as now occupy the land and water. 
The lecturer stated, that these organic remains, imbedded and 
preserved in the different strata of the earth's external crust, 
formed an authentic and historical record of the different animals 
and plants that had succeded each other in tiie course of time : 
and that the different layers of rocks, containing a succession of 
mineral fragments of more ancient rocks, formed a chronological 
record of the world, from the period when the secondary rocks 
began to be formed, up to the present time. Since geologists 
have begun to register facts, instead of dealing in vague and 
visionary cosmological specluations, all their researches go to 
establish the authenticity of the Mosaic account of the creation. 


The importance of the study of organic remains was insisted 
on as forming a key to geological research. Tliese important 
records informed us, that all the dry land, with which we are 
acquainted, had, at some former period of time, been covered 
with water; that other plants and otlier animals inhabited the 
earth and sea, under a different state of things, and that there 
was a gradual succession of animal and vegetable life, until man 
was created. The lecturer stated, that no human bones were 
found, unless in the alluvions or newest strata, at the surface, or 
in caverns. The various meteoric and atmospherical agencies, 
producing geological changes on the earth's surface, and in the 
bed of the ocean, were then alluded to : such as the weathering, 
abrasion and degradation of rocks, together with the effects 
produced on them, by the expansive force of freezing water, and 
dislocations caused by hydrostatic pressure. Deposits are formed 
and consolidations take place, in the bed of the ocean ; and many 
curious examples were given, of the wonderful changes brought 
about by the transporting and cutting power of rivers and 
running streams, whereby the higher lands are worn away and 
conveyed to the ocean, there to form new strata. 

The lecturer then adverted to the curious circumstance, of the 
slow but gradual rise of Scandinavia above the waters of the 
Baltic Sea and German Ocean — a circumstance hinted at by 
Pliny, Gibbon and others, and recordedhy Celsius a Swedish natu- 
ralist, 130 years ago, but treated by geologists as an idle fiction. 
The fact is however established beyond a doubt. Mr. Ryall last 
year visited Scandanavia; he found that marks cut in the solid 
rocks, in retired creeks of the Bothnic Gulf, 20 years ago, were 
several inches above the sea, and similar marks cut 70 years ag^o, 
were now several feet above the water's surface. Sea shells of 
the same species as now live in the adjacent waters, were found 
imbedded in, or adhering to the rocks, at heights from one to two 
hundred feet above the present level of the sea. A mass of 
evidence, historical, traditional, and ocular, proves that Scan- 
danavia is slowly but gradually rising out of the water, at the rate 
of about three feet in a century. 

The transporting power of currents and tidal streams was next 
alluded to, and the constant changes they produce in the bed of 
the ocean ^ and on the coasts of continents and islands. These 
great streams of water, moving in different directions, and trans- 
ferring portions of caloric from one locality to another, modify 
the temperature of different countries and produce changes in 
VOL. v.— 1835. s 


the animal and vegetable productions of the same countries at 
different geological periods. 

The lecturer concluded his paper by producing maps and 
diagrams to prove that England owes her insular situation to 
agencies now in operation. He thinks that at" some compara- 
tively recent geological period, England was joined to the Con- 
tinent by an Isthmus near Dover, and that in those days extraor- 
dinary high tides of 102 feet, obtained to the westward of the 
Isthmus : and that inferior tides obtained in the German Ocean : 
that the constant chafing of the waves, gradually diminished the 
distance across; that equinoctial tides accompanied by equinoc- 
tial gales, and great diminution in the pressure of the atmosphere 
would produce exceedingly high tides in this locality, whereby a 
breach might be made, and a torrent precipitated into the German 
Ocean; bearing along with it, all the flints, gravel, chalk, sand, 
and mud that composed the isthmus. These materials would 
be deposited in a succession of banks, bearing some relation to 
the velocity of the tide, as it gradually diminished as the distance 
from the Strait increased ; now this is exactly what we find here, 
for a series of shoals extending along the coast, from the Straits 
of Dover to the Texel exist ; those nearest to Calais, being com- 
posed of the most coarse and hard materials, and those further 
to the eastward being of softer and more soluble n:atter. An 
opening being once made, a total change took place in the range 
of the tide, and in the direction of its streams; lands that were 
once covered by the tide in the English Channel, would now be 
left 40 feet above high water mark; other lands on the shores of 
the German Ocean, would now be drowned by the tides: 
because, before the disruption, the North Sea could only be 
filled by a tide wave passing between Scotland and Norway, 
whereas, after the disruption, another tide wave passed into the 
North Sea, through the Straits of Dover. Now in some localities, 
these tide waves would combine to produce higlier tides, whereas, 
in other localities, they might become tides of interference and 
mutually destroy each other; all the consequences resulting from 
such a catastrophe are too numerous for us to mention. We 
shall therefore conclude this notice in the lecturer's own words. 
" We may, however, conclude, that the external crust of our 
earth is continually but slowly changing its geological and geo- 
graphical features, by the various agencies now in operation. 
Water is raised, by heat, into steam, and mounts into the atmos- 
phere to form clouds, which are wafted by the winds to the 


summits of the loftiest mountains ; here they are condensed and 
give birth to springs, rills, rivulets, and rivers ; and all the con- 
sequences resulting from them. The hardest rocks are worn 
aw^ay by meteoric phenomena, and their ruins conveyed by fluids, 
to form new lands. Volcanoes vomit their liquid lava to form 
rocks, or eject ashes into the air, which are borne away by the 
winds, to fertilize the surrounding country. Rivers protrude 
their deltas into the sea. The Ocean undermines and demolishes 
its rocky barrier. Here we behold a whole country, with its 
mountains, rivers, and lakes, slowly but gradually rising above 
the level of the sea. There we find islands just peering above 
the waves, and again sinking beneath them. The great oceanic 
currents roll on their mighty streams, and bring together the 
produce of both Torrid and Frigid Zones ; while the ever 
changing tide invades, frets, and fritters away the softest and 
most soluble portions of our coasts. On one hand, we behold 
the destruction of our continents and islands ; on the other hand, 
reproduction. Yet although so many destructive agents be in 
operation, filling the earth with the monuments of ruin and dis- 
order, yet there are conservative principles in operation, which 
preserve the stability of the system, and render the Earth a fit 
habitation for its sojourner— : Man." 

January 15tii. — Mr. Barnes' second Lecture on Moral 

The object of the lecturer was'to show the mode in which this 
science should be pursued. To this end he stated what moral 
philosophy is, viz., the knowledge of the moral qualities of human 
actions ; which he showed, by reference to his former lecture, to 
be the relations of agreement or disagreement between their 
natural qualities and the laws of the Divine Will. 

He then pointed out the method of classifying the natural 
qualities of human actions, and of obtaining a knowledge of the 
laws of the Divine Will regarding each ; and explained how from 
a knowledge of the things related is to be drawn that of their 
relations to each other; i. e., of the /wora/ qualities of human 

The lecture was concluded by some observations on Paley's 
work on this subject. 


January 22nd. — Mr. Ciiatfi eld's third Lecture on 
Naval Architecture. 

The lecturer observed that, on referring to his two former pa- 
pers, he found that there was a great deal of matter yet untouched, 
lie had explained the leading principles in the theory of naval 
construction, and had described, in a summary way, the mechan- 
ical mode of ship-building: he had also treated on the "moving 
forces" employed to propel vessels, more particularly the action 
of the wind vtpon a ship's sails — and had illustrated the principle 
upon which ships, by a series of diagonal movements, work to 
windward of the place of departure. 

The lecturer considered that from the period at wliich we find 
a ship built upon the "stocks" until the lime of her being acted 
upon by the moving forces employed to propel her, many operations 
are performed in the department of naval architecture which might 
witli propriety, occupy one of the evenings of the Institution. 
He therefore proposed to speak, first, of the principle and mode 
of launching ; and then, of the manner in which the stowage and 
internal arrangements are planned and proceeded with. 

1. The lecturer described, by means of a very complete model, 
the whole process of fitting a launch ; he actually launched the 
model, and thus elucidated the operation of constructing a 
" cradle,' capable of sustaining the entire weight of the ship 
when all other support is removed, and which is so contrived as 
to move with the vessel until she is safely in the water. The 
system of launching was shewn to be exceedingly simple ; but 
the details are too numerous to admit of repetition in the short 
outline which we are enabled to give of the lectures of the Insti- 

2. The lecturer proceeded to treat on stoivage, which signifies 
the method of arranging the posit ioiiSj and subsequently disposing 
of all great weights — viz., the ujumunltion, provisions, diud stores ; 
with a view to promote tliose good qualities which, when com- 
bined, constitute excellence in naval construction. A vessel's 
stability under canvass, the easiness of her evolutions, and her 
durability, are all affected in an important degree by the system 
of stowage. Here the lecturer described the mode of determining 
the trim of a vessel, or her " seat" in the water; which depends 
on the relative positions of the weights before and abaft the 
centre of gravity of the volume of water which the naval architect 
designs his ship to displace, when equipped for sea. But the 
predicted " line of floatation" may be adjusted under a variety 


of modifications, because the mere libration of weights which 
keep each other in equilibrio depends on their relative (not their 
actual) situations, in reference to the axis of rotation : conse- 
quently, the "trim" of a ship alone, is not the only principle 
which a naval constructor has to consider. 

A ship floating in a quiescent, stkte will be liable to strain, 
unless the distribution of the weights on board be regulated by 
the vertical pressure of the water under the vessel's bottom 
which varies according to the form of the submerged part of the 
body, from one extremity to the other. An example was quoted 
by the lecturer, of the effect of this principle in actual practice, 
(on a 74 gun ship) as given by Dr. Young, in a paper published 
in the Philosophical Transactions, 1814. The argument was then 
applied to a ship in motion, the lecturer demonstrating that the 
weights at the extremities of a ship cause her to plmige into the 
sea with a force proportional to the squares of the distances of the 
weights from the centre of rotation : hence it follows that ships 
become strained by loading them with heavy weights towards 
the extremities, by which they are not only torn to pieces, but 
their progress through the water is materially impeded. 

The lecturer invited the attention of the society to some 
general rules by which the required cavity of a ship's hold may 
be correctly estimated, and subdivided. He read, from official 
reports on ships' qualities their various characters as regards their 
capabilities for s^owd/^*-^ ; and thus proved that even in vessels 
of the same '^ class," their characters are widely different. Some 
vessels bear the character of stowing an unusual quantity of 
w^ater: others will stow a particularly large proportion of bread : 
others have a very capacious after hold, spirit room, magazine, 
and so forth : at the same time many ships are respectively defec- 
tive in one or other of these particulars. Facts of this kind re- 
flect on the naval architectural department ; they certainly betray 
a want of method: because, if a ship will stow water, or 
bread, or any other species of provisions, for a given period ; it 
should follow as a thing of course, that her capacity for stowage 
be perfect in every other particular for the same length of time. 
In the opinion of the lecturer, such would be the effect of a sys- 
tem founded upon rules of proportion, which it would be his 
endeavour to make clear. He took his position upon the " Re- 
gulations of the service," by which he perceived that a very me- 
thodical arrangement may be made for determining with precision 
the relative magnitudes of all the compartments for stowage. 


The whole system of stowage may be placed under the four 
following heads, viz.: — the Ordnance, Victualling, Medical, ^nd 
Mechanical departments. This mechanical branch includes the 
boatswain's and carpenter's departments, by which the rigging and 
hull are kept in an efficient state. 

Here the lecturer referred to the drawing of a seventy-four gun 
ship, shewing the internal arrangements, the principal part of 
which were minutely explained, from the poop-deck down to the 
orlop-deck ; and, having arrived at the lowest platform, he then 
described the principle upon which the required capacity of a 
ship's hold may be estimated, and accurately subdivided, that 
she may be enabled to receive stores and provisions of every kind 
for any given number of men, for a given period. 

The principle on which Mr. Chalfield proposes to do this, is 
by calculating the Jiet cubical content, as well as the net weight, 
of powder, shot, provisions, water, &c. ; he then finds the additi- 
onal space occupied by the vessels in which provisions, &c. are 
respectively contained, and the loss of room sustained by the 
figures of those vessels. Thus, it appears that bee/'is stowed in 
barrels containing 38 pieces of 8 lbs. each ; but a barrel of beef, 
including beef, salt, and pickle, amounts to 499 lbs., out of which 
the cask alone weighs 69 lbs., which leaves 430 lbs. for the beef, 
brine and salt; or 126 lbs. for brine and salt. Hence in the 
article beef, the tare of pickle and salt amounts to 40 per cent, 
on the primitive weight, and a further tare of 23 per cent, should 
be added for the weight of the cask, making altogether 63 per 
cent., on this article of provision. It was stated that the loss on 
stowage was still greater, viz. 143 per cent, on the original cubi- 
cal content of the article beef. The lecturer knew of no other 
principle, upon which correct calculations can be made, in order 
to predict with accuracy, the entire weight of, and space occupied 
by, all the provisions, &c., for a man-of-war for a given period. 
He deemed it important to act upon that principle, for he thought 
it often happened, that a ship's hold was quite capacious 
enough to receive every thing, but that an injudicious mode of 
partitioning off'the various compartments cramped the stowage of 
some and left unnecessary room in others. This opinion was 
confirmed by extracts from official documents. 

The lecturer concluded by observing, that the beauty of every 
system is the harmony of its parts : it is so in Nature, and it is 
the same in the works of Art. It was his wish to shew that 
naval architecture admits of being harmonized, with great practical 


advantage, even in the departments of stowage. He feared that 
the details which he had brought before the society, had proved 
uninteresting, but they were not unimportant; he was free to 
confess that his knowledge of the subject was very imperfect, 
and that he should have hesitated to write a paper on "Stowage,'' 
if he had not experienced the most enlightened attention at those 
public departments in the neighbourhood, where he had sought 
for information, on the subjects to which his observations had 

The lecturer reminded the Society that he had said on former 
occasions, in that hall, that it yet remains for English ship build- 
ers to reduce naval architecture to a scientific system : he wished 
he could see reason to alter that opinion — but he could not; his 
sentiments on that point were unchanged. " They order matters 
better in France." In England, we want that encouragement to 
prosecute naval philosophy, which, in France, is so liberally prof- 
fered. The French Academy of Sciences have offered several 
prizes, from time to time, for the best Memolres on the stowage 
of ships. In 1757, Daniel Bernouilli received a prize; in 1759, 
Mon. L. Euler divided the prize; in the same year, and again in 
1765, Mon. Groignard, Constructeur des vaisseaux du Roi, k 
L' Orient, divided a prize; in 1761, Mon. L' Abbe Bossut, and 
Mon. J. A. Euler divided a prize; and, in 1766, Mon. Bourd^ 
de Villehuet obtained a prize. Besides these, many other com- 
petitors were candidates for the honours to be awarded. 

But where shall we look for essays, (I will not say prize essays) 
in the English language? If it be true that the destinies of 
an empire may be read in the characters of its public institutions, 
let us hope that in proportion as we value our naval supremacy, 
so shall we cherish every means of becoming superior to rival 
countries in every thing that relates to our maritime resources. 


Jan. 30., Henriette, and Turn Out. 

Ilenriette, or the Forsaken, was brought out for the first time, 
on the above evening. It is a melo-drama, founded on the 
German novel, "The Patrician," and dramatized by Buckstone, 
author of " Victorine." It was received with unbounded ap- 
plause, and was well worthy of such a reception. Miss Mason 
appeared to great advantage as Henriette ; her conception of the 


character was correct, and her performance, especially towards 
the close of the second -act, was truly touching. Miss Jarman, 
as Rose, was very good. Mr. Hield's Monval was not inferior to 
Miss Mason's Henriette; and Mr. Horsman's Philippe was 
acted better than any thing we have seen him do this season. 

Fuller, as Chevalier Pirouette, would have done much better 
with a wig less outrageously outre. 

Feb. 2., Henriette f and Turn Out. 

Under the patronage of Sir W. Cotton and the officers of the 
Garrison. The performances were well received by an overflow- 
ing house. 

Feb. 5., Rural Felicity y and The Housekeeper were announ- 
ced for this evening, but no performance took place in conse- 
quence of the fatal illness of Mr. Sandford, who, to the deep 
sorrow of his relatives and friends, and to the great regret of tlie 
public, died, on the 7th, three days after an apoplectic seizure. 

Without condescending to fulsome or unmerited eulogy, we 
will sum up the character of this upright and high-minded indi- 
vidual, in the words which Shakspeare put into the mouth of 
Antony — 

" Nature might stand up, 
And say to all the world, Tuis was a man ! " 

Feb. 16., Jane S/forf, and Don Juan. 

Miss Mason's Jane Shore was the main attraction of this 
evening. She was equally successful in the depiction of humili- 
ated penitence, passive endurance, and the withering despair 
which bows' down the soul when its last hope has perished. She 
gave many passages with power and pathos, and in the scene 
subsequent to her supplication, for a morsel of bread, at the door 
of Alicia, (Mrs. Ilorsman) she identified herself so closely with 
the forlorn condition of the character, as to merit the unanimous 
applause with which she was greeted by the audience. 

Feb. 17., Eugene Arauiy and Tekeli. 

Miss Mason, as Madeline, and Mr. Hield, as Eugene Aram, 
acted with their usual ability, and vvere very flatteringly encour- 
aged by unanimous plaudits. Richard Houseman is a character 
well adapted to Mr. Horsman's line of acting. By a few minute 
touches he threw a sternness of truth into his picture of the 
heartless murderer, which made it tell strikingly; whilst he also 
developed, with fidelity of feeling, the only one redeeming trait in 
his character — the solicitude of a father. 

Feb. 19., The Wedding Goimi, (which we noticed in a former 
number) and Hurul Ftliciti/. 

The performances of this evening were under the patronage of 
the ladies and gentlemen of the West end of the town ; but, owing 
to the extreme inclemency of the weather, the house was not so 
full as had been anticipated. 


APR. 22 

J. lOri.STON, Eby., DJ.h. 


PLYMOUTH, APRIL 1st, 1835. 

No. 28.] Price Sixpence. [Vol. V. 


The subjects of our engraving, this month, are the 
Town Hall, the Column, and Mount Zion Chapel, 

For the drawing from which they were taken we 
are highly indebted to John Foulston, Esq., who, 
with great kindness, prepared it for the " Museum." 
The favor which has thus been conferred upon us 
was much enhanced by its being as unexpected as it 
was unsoHcited. 

We believe our engraving is the most accurate 
which has been presented to the pubhc. That in 
" Fisher's Devonshire Illustrated " is incorrect in the 
relative proportions ; the Column being much too 
small in comparison with the other edifices. 

The three structures are enduring monuments of 
the taste and skill of the architect, Mr. Foulston, to 
whom Devonport and Plymouth are indebted for 
the designs of so many classic public buildings. 

The Town Hall was designed from the Parthenon, 
at Athens. The builder was the late Mr. Rickard, 
of Devonport. It was commenced in 1821, and w^as 
completed in the following year, at an expense of 
£2902., which was raised by subscription, in shares. 
The portico exhibits four Doric columns ; each 
twenty-seven feet six inches in height, and five feet 
six inches in diameter. Within its recess is a flight 
of six steps, leading to the Hall itself, which is 

VOL. v.~1835. T 


seventy-five feet long, forty feet wide, and thirty-one 
feet in height. 

The interior is fitted up as a court of justice, for 
the transaction of such business as comes under the 
cognizance of the local magistrates : but, as the 
Hall is frequently used for other public purposes, 
the fittings are so constructed as to be capable of 
removal when necessary. At the back of the edi- 
fice, and otherwise contained within it, are several 
smaller apartments. There are also cells for prison- 
ers, which have a communication with the Hall. 
The meetings of the Devonport Mechanics' Institute 
are held within the building. 

His late Majesty, George the fourth, granted to 
the inhabitants the privilege of changing the former 
name of the town, Plymouth Dock, to that of 
Devonport; and on the first of January, 1824, its 
new appellation was proclaimed in many public 
places, with every demonstration of rejoicing. In 
order to perpetuate the memory of this event, the 
Column was erected, from Mr. Foulston's design, it 
was to be surmounted by a colossal statue of the 
King who sanctioned the change of name. This 
structure also was built by the late Mr. Rickard, at 
an expense of £2750., but this does not include the 
remuneration of the architect. It may, here, be 
observed that the Column was erected without the 
aid of any exterior scaffolding. 

The Column stands upon a solid rock, twenty-two 
feet above the pavement ; which height is ascended 
by a handsome flight of steps, enclosed by parapets 
of wrought marble ashler work, and communicating 
with an arched gateway, of similar materials, that 
opens to the terrace surrounding the base. 

Including the plinths and foundation rock, the 
entire elevation of the Column from the street to the 
pedestal, whereupon the figure is to stand, is 125 
feet. On the upper plinth, which is nine feet high, 
are pannels for inscriptions ; the height of the lower 
plinth is nineteen feet. The whole is constructed of 


granite, of a very superior quality. The shaft is 
fluted, and of the Grecian Doric order, having within 
it a spiral staircase leading to a balcony on the 
summit of the capital. This is surrounded by an 
elegant iron railing, and commands as fine an ex- 
panse of prospect as any in the country; — it is 
bounded by Hengist down, on the north, and extends 
to the British Channel on the south ; and comprises 
every variety of landscape, lying between Dartmoor 
on the east, and the far hills of Cornwall on the west. 
A person is always in attendance at the Column : 
visitors are allowed to ascend to the top, and avail 
themselves of the beautiful view which it unfolds, on 
payment of a shiUing. 

To the right of the Column is seen Mount Zion 
Chapel. It is designed after the Hindoo style, with 
the ornaments and accompaniments appropriate to 
that fantastic manner ; but of massive and bold pro- 
portions ; these are so judiciously arranged, that the 
whole front presents a highly effective and pleasing 
appearance; and the building, though placed in 
juxta- position with the fine portico of the Town 
Hall, maintains its rank, and seems to suffer nothing 
from a contrast, which would be destructive to many 
buildings, in which bold and picturesque effects 
have been less the objects of the architect's attention. 

The building of this chapel was commenced in 
November, 1823, and finished in July, 1824, at a 
cost of about £2,000. 

To the "right of Mount Zion Chapel is the Devon- 
port Library (an engraving of which has been pre- 
pared for publication in a future number). The 
building was originally used as the Devonport and 
Stonehouse Classical and Mathematical Subscription 
School. The business of that establishment is now 
carried on in another building, in Fore Street, 
Devonport. Subsequently to this removal, the 
edifice was purchased for a Public Library, for 
which purpose it is exceedingly well adapted. It is 
supported by annual subscriptions, every subscriber 


having the privilege of introducing a friend, with free 
access for three months. The Libraiy consists of a 
highly valuable collection of books, both ancient and 
modern, and a constant supply of the London, pro- 
vincial, and local newspapers. 

The building is in the Egyptian style of architec- 
ture; much judgment has been displayed by the 
architect in combming the massive parts, appropriate 
to this style, with the greatest effect. Monsieur 
Denon observed, when a design of the building was 
shown to him, that it was the best attempt to appro- 
priate Egyptian architecture to domestic purposes 
that had ever come under his notice. The building 
was erected in 1823, at the cost of £1500. 

For parts of the above disci iption we are indebted 
to " Carrington's Guide," " Rowe's Panorama of 
Plymouth," " Brindley's Directory," and " Fisher's 
Devonshire and Cornwall Illustrated." 


What are the pleasures of childhood ? For pity's sake, interested 
reader, if you have an inkling thereof, make it known to the 
editor; who, perhaps, may have sufficient charity to publish the 
matter for the benefit of all whom it may concern. I must 
candidly confess that I have never seen any thing like pleasure 
in childhood — except in print, especially in the writings of those 
mendacious, half-witted varlets, the poets. 

No doubt they would persuade us that the pleasures commence 
shortly after we make our entrance into the world, — to wit, the 
pleasures of smell, taste, sight, hearing, and feeling. What an 
exquisite odour of gin and aniseed salutes a new born infant on 
the lap of its nurse — how comfortable must it feel when half a 
teacup full of brandy, rhubarb, and other drugs, is thrust down 
its throat, "just to comfort its dear little stomach — it wants 
something to keep up the natural heat, poor little soul." What 
a favorable picture of humanity it first opens its eyes upon — the 
half boiled, blood-shot eyes of an old woman, who is doing her 
utmost, by means of every species of swathing and bandaging, to 
render it as uncomfortable as is consistent with appropriate 


nursing. Then the precious darling is presented to papa — who 
adds to its pleasures by pronouncing it tlie ugliest object he ever 
beheld ; whilst, to prove his paternal feeling, he gives it a kiss — 
that is, rasps half the skin from its face with the black stubble of 
his bristly chin. 

From this period to that of cutting its teeth, which of course 
is another pleasure, it experiences the diurnal delight of cold 
water ablutions, which it acknowledges by exerting its lungs to 
the top of their ability; and by this proclamation of its felicity, 
no doubt, adds to that of the aforesaid papa, if he happen to be 
within hearing range. 

"And vaccination certainlyi^has been 

A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets." 

But it also has certainly been for some time one of the plea- 
sures of childhood, for who will deny the pleasantness of having 
a lancet thrust into each arm, and a dose of castor oil into the 

A new and enlarged series of pleasure commences with the 
event of Master Dickey's going to school — a preparatory delight 
is his being encased in a pair of breeches, and a button spangled 
jacket withal. That he feels comfortable in these habiliments is 
evinced by the ease of his attitudes, which are not a whit more 
graceful than that of a dead pig planted on its hind legs against 
a brick wall, on a frosty morning. 

At Doctor Birchrod's establishment, he has the pleasure of 
sitting quietly at a desk, for six hours per diem, with the super- 
addition of being placed near a window, whence he has a pros- 
pect of sunshine and green fields. The big boys "leather" him 
because he cannot box, or haply because his mamma never sends 
a plumcake large enough to give them a feed all round. The 
master " thrashes " him because he has learned to box, and has 
sported a black eye in testimony thereof. 

Whatever mischief may be done in school-room or play-ground 
is sure to be laid to the credit of him and his co-mates, the little 
fellows ; for the children of larger growth have sufficient ingenuity 
in most cases, to keep themselves clear of such scrapes : they 
fancy that it is quite enough to be birched for the sake of Homer 
and Euclid — poetry and philosophy. 

Other pleasures of childhood may be enumerated, under the 
denomination of scarlet fever, measles, hooping cough, chicken 
pox, nettle rash, and sundry other matters, id genus ; too numerous 
to mention here, but which are duly set forth in the advertise- 
ments of all quack doctors. 


»i 150 


*' Who is that blocking up the hatchway ? " said I, as somednrk 
body nearly filled the entire aperture. 

Presently the half-naked figure of Sergeant Quacco descended 
the ladder. He paid no attention to me nor any body else; but 
spoke to some one on deck in the Eboe tongue, and presently his 
wife appeared at the coamings of the hatchway, hugging and 
fondling the abominable little graven image as if it had been her 
child — her own flesh and blood. She handed it down to the 
black sergeant, who placed it in a comer, nuzzling and rubbing 
his nose all over it, as if he had been propitiating the tiny Moloch 
by the abjectness of his abasement. I was curious to see how 
Lennox would take all this, but it produced no effect : he looked 
with a quizzical expression of countenance at the figure for some 
time, and then lay back in his hammock, and seemed to be com- 
posing himself to sleep. I went on deck, leaving the negro and 
his sable helpmate below amongst the men, and was conversing 
with Mr. Sprawl, who had by this time made his appearance, 
when we were suddenly startled by aloud shriek from the negress, 
who shot up from below, plunged instantly overboard, and began 
to swim with great speed towards the shore. She was instantly 
followed by our friend the sergeant, who for a second or two 
looked forth after the sable naiad, in an attitude as if the very 
next moment he would have followed her. I hailed the dingy 
Venus — " Come back, my dear — come back." She turned round 
with a laughing countenance, but never for a moment hesitated 
in her shoreward progress. 

"What sail become of me!" screamed Sergeant Quacco. — 
" Oh, Lord, I sail lose my vife — cost me feefty dollar — Lose my 
vife! — dat de dam little Fetish say mosh be save. Oh, poor 
debil dat I is ! " — and here followed a long tirade in some 
African dialect that was utterly unintelligible to us. 

" My good fellow, don't make such an uproar, will ye?" 
said I. " Leave your wife to her fate : you cannot better yourself 
if you would die for it." 

" I do n't know, massa; I do n't know. Ilim cost me feefty 
daller. Beside, as massa must have seen, him beautiful — oh, 
wery beautiful ; — and what you tink dem willain asore will do to 
him ? Ah, massa, you can't tell what dem will do to him." 

" Why, my good man, what will they do? " 


" Eat him, massa, may be; for dey look on him as one who 
HOW is enemy — dat is, dey call me enemy, and dem know him 
is my vife — Oh, Lord — feefty dollar — all go, de day dem roast 
my vife." 

I could scarcely refrain from laughing; but on the instant the 
poor fellow ran up to the old quartermaster, who was standing 
near the mast, admiring the construction of the canoe, — as beau- 
tiful a skiff, by the way, as was ever scooped out of tree. " Help 
me, old man : help me to launch de canoe. I must go on sore 
— I must go on sore." 

The seaman looked at me — I nodded ; and, taking the hint, he 
instantly lent Blackie a hand. The canoe was launched over- 
board, and the next moment Sergeant Quacco was paddling after 
his adored, that had cost him fifty dollars, in double-quick time. 

He seemed, so far as we could judge, to be rapidly overtaking 
her, when the little promontory of the creek hid them from our 
view ; and under the impression that we had seen the last of him, 
I began to busy myself in the hope of getting over the bar that 
forenoon. An hour might have elapsed, and all remained quiet, 
except at the bar, where the thunder and hissing of the breakers 
began to fail ; and as the tide made, I began, in concert with 
Mr. Sprawl, to see all ready to go to sea ; but I soon was per- 
suaded, that, from the extreme heaviness of the ground swell 
that rolled in, there was no chance of extricating ourselves until 
the evening at the soonest, or it might be next morning, when 
the young ebb would give us a lift; so we were walking up and 
down, to while away the time, when poor Lennox, who had by 
this time come on deck, said, on my addressing him, that he had 
seen small jets of white smoke rise up from among the green 
mangroves now and then ; and although he had not heard any 
report, yet he was persuaded they indicated musket-shots. 

" It may all be as you say, Lennox ; but I hope we shall 
soon be clear of this accursed river, and then they may blaze 
away at each other as much as they please." 

The words were scarcely out of my mouth, when we not only 
saw the smoke, but heard the rattle of musketry, and presently a 
small black speck shot rapidly beyond the headland, or cape, 
that shut in our view, on the larboard side, up the river. On its 
nearer approach, we soon perceived that it was our friend Quacco 
once more, in his small dory of a canoe, with the little fetish god 
stuck over the bow; but there was no appearance of his wife. 


On his near approach to the vessel, the man appeared absolutely 
frantic. He worked and sculled away with his paddle as if he 
had been mad; and when at last he got on deck, having previ- 
ously cast the little horrible image up before him, he began to 
curse and to swear, at one moment in the Eboe tongue, at another 
in bad Creole English, as if he had been possessed with the 
devil — 

" Hoo chockaro, chockaro, soo ho — Oh, who could tink young 
woman could hab so mosh deceit ! — Ahj Queykarre tol de rol 
zig tootle too — to leave me Quacco, and go join dera Eboe wil- 
lain I " Then, as if recollecting himself — " But how do I know 
dat dem no frighten him for say so ? Ah, now I remember one 
ogly dag stand beside him hab long clear knife in him hand. 
Oh, Lord! Tooka, tooka — Cookery Pee Que — Ah, poor ting! 
dem hab decoy him — cheat him into dem power — and to morrow 
morning sun will see dem cook him — ay, and eat him. Oh dear, 
dem will eat my vife — oli, him cost me feefty dallar — eat my 
feefty dallar — oh Kickerehoo, Rotan ! " And straightway he 
cast himself on the deck, and began to yell and roll over and 
over, as if he had been in the greatest agony. Presently he 
jumped on his legs again, and ran and laid hold of the little 
graven image. He caught it up by the legs, and smashed its 
head down on the hard deck. "You dam Fetish— you false 
willain, dis what you give me for kill fowl, eh ? and tro de blood 
in you face, eh ? and stick fedder in you tail, eh ? and put 
blanket over you shoulder when rain come, and night fog roll 
over we and make you chilly ? What you give me for all dis ? 
You drive me go on board dat footy little Englis crusier, and 
give my vife, cost me feefty dallar, to be roast and eat ? Oh, 
Massa Carpenter, do lend me one hax ;" and seizing the tool that 
had been brought on deck, and lay near him, he, at a blow split 
open the Fetish's head, and continued to mutilate it, until he was 
forcibly disarmed by some of the men that stood by him. 

From the Cruise of the Midge. 

153 J 

No. VIII. 

** I must have liberty withal : — as free a charter as 
The wind to blow on whom I please; for so fools have." 


*' What is your opinion," said my companion, "of 
Mr. 's buildings ? " 

" Simply this," said I : " They exhibit as much 
merit as may be looked for in the designs of a man 
not regularly educated as an architect." 

There was a slight tinge of the contemptuous in 
the expression of his countenance, as he demanded 
^^ What I meant by a regularly educated architect ?" 
and that expression became still more apparent as 
he continued, in the same breath, to answer his own 
question, by supposing that "the regular education 
of an architect could mean little more than a suffici- 
ency of constructive acquirement added to a fair 
proportion of natuml taste." 

It is thus that architects, even in this day of im- 
proved knowledge, and by men of approved educa- 
tion and accomplishments, are confounded with 
cabinet makers — no offence to the latter. Construc- 
tive acquirement perfects the carpenter, and is 
necessary to the architect, who, without it, might 
give his " taste" impracticable scope; fascinating 
his employer by the beauty of a design that he may 
afterwards be disappointed by the impossibility of its 
realization. As it has just been hinted, natural 
taste may convert a joiner into a cabinet maker, and 
possibly stimulate him to become an architect ; but 
the practice of architectural design is just as much 
dependant upon acquirement as that of constructive 
carpentry. A man may become a very tolerable 
architect without having an iota of natural taste, 
which signifies, that the art is much less of a Jine 
arty and much more of a science y than is usually 
imagined. It is scientific in respect to its positive 
laws of proportion — the distinct classification of its 
several varieties — the established observances which 

VOL. v.— 1835. V 


each variety peremptorily demands — and particularly 
in respect to the fact of its being so slightly referable 
to that principle of imitation which is the great 
governing motive of painting and sculpture. It is a 
"fine art " only in respect to the allowed ^nodijica" 
tions of its several styles established, and to the 
permitted invention of total novelty. It is not, 
therefore, a matter of mere science, though greatly 
accessible to a merely mechanical mind ; and the 
reader will now clearly understand how far acquire- 
ment is indispensable, and how far natural taste is 
beneficial. Of two architects equally educated, the 
one of most natural taste will prove the better; but 
natural taste can much better be spared than the 
industriously acquired knowledge of established 

Taste and architectural taste are two very different 
things. The one enables its possessor to take delight 
in any combination of forms which may generally 
display an abstract harmony, but a building may be 
tolerably harmonious as an entire object, and yet 
intolerably anomalous in its component parts. The 
pleasure, therefore, experienced by the man of mere 
natural taste is dependant upon his remaining igno- 
rant of architectural science ; or, in other words, it is 
held under the tenure of apathetic indolence. Should 
he, by some unfortunate accident, fall into the way 
of an agreeable architectural essay, or suffer himself 
to imbibe that ^wr(/)i/ knowledge which the frequent 
recurrence to illustrated woikswill in time occasion, 
he will become unhappy under reflections of ill- 
bestowed admiration. It is true, he may derive 
additional pleasure from much that has before 
pleased ; but he will be shocked at many things 
which he might otherwise comfortably endure. O, 
beware of the cultivation of an architectural taste ! 
It w ill fascinate you into the expenses of building ! - 
It will involve yon in the dangers of criticism ! 
Your newly awakened zeal will render you ridiculous, 
and your provoked spirit of censure detested. You 


will have left the republic of free-love for the abso- 
lute monarchy of prescribed affection. You will no 
longer admire as your unfettered will has hitherto 
prompted ; you will only admire what you may. 
Back to the open wilds of your native ignorance ! 
Send for your carpenter. Tell him to " knock you 
up'' a comfortable house after his own fancy, and 
then innocently comment upon the skill with which 
he has intermingled principles of every genius, ex- 
amples of every age, and impossibihties of every 

I have thus shewn you, that architectural taste, 
like that for pickled olives and Havannah cigars, is 
an acquired tsiste ; and that, as the subjects of my 
simile induce the expensive habit of drinking, so the 
subject to which they assimilate induces measures 
just as intoxicating. I should regret the fatality 
which has compelled me to adopt the practice of 
architecture as a means of existence ; but I am in a 
great measure supported by the consideration that 
my friend Freiburg sells tobacco, and that I have a 
cousin who keeps a gin-shop. While we all three 
complain of the public, we are yet comforted in the 
companionship of complaint, and the enmity which 
I should otherwise exhibit towards carpenter-archi- 
tects is much subdued by the consideration that 
there are Temperance Societies to counteract the too 
prominent success of gin and tobacco. 

Nothing more decidedly proves the artificial 
nature of architectural taste, than the ever continued 
ignorance of it, as exampled in many eminent paint- 
ers. In fact, no body of men is more destitute of 
true architectural feeling than the gentlemen of the 
brush. This is the more remarkable, because they 
have often to do with architectural subjects, and 
might therefore, under the assistance of their " na- 
tural taste," be expected to become architecturally 
informed. The case is far otherwise, and so it must 
remain while they look at columns and buildings, as 
they do at trees and bushes, unmindful that accuracy 


of form, proportion, and detail, are as necessary to 
the one as generalization and sentiment are to the 
other. No one can more admire Prout (as an artist 
solely considered) than the author of these sketches ; 
but it is certain that all architects must be unani- 
mously shocked at his offences against proportion 
ai d detail whenever he has to manage an architec- 
tural subject. Corinthian columns are not pollards, 
and the relative proportions of their parts, of their 
entablatures, &:c. are not accidental , like those of a 
Cornish hut. Upon the just observance of these 
proportions depends much that would give interest 
to Mr. Front's drawings, supposing they were de- 
ficient in that mastery of color and general effect, 
which renders them valuable notwithstanding their 
architectural delinquencies. Canaletti has made it 
certain, that an artist may be at once poetically 
pictorial and mathematically true ; and here we come 
to the point whence we started, for the mathematics 
of architectural design are not to be learned in a day, 
and, in the full acquirement of their knowledge, the 
"regular education ofan architect" consists: Q. E. D. 

A young gentleman, recently from college, and 
suddenly coming into an unexpected fortune, called 
upon me the other day, to know whether I would 
undertake to build him a new manor house ? " With 
much pleasure, and with every attention to your 
desires, sir,*' said I. 

** I am obliged to you, sir," said he, " here are the 
plans : — 

" THE PLANS ! " echoed I :— 

He had confounded me with the contractor, think- 
ing the architect was merely a practical operative ! 

You will say, — " not so, — he had aheady obtained 
his plans from one whom he acknowledged as an 
architect, and came to you under a correct motive, 
though false impression, thinking you a builder:" — 

No such thing. His plans had been prepared by 
a country factotum, chiefly known as a land survey- 


or; and he thought it the architect's business to 
carry into effect the designs of another. 

He was a gentleman ; and, therefore, a brief ex- 
planation of his error soon put things into a more 
orthodox, if not better, train. The land surveyor 
was paid off — his plans put into the fire — and an 
entirely new design ordered to be made : — But, stay ! 
— The excavations for the cellarage of the ^' land- 
lubber's" model were already made ; so that my 
new design must be made to suit them ! — No matter. 
The half of a professional man's employment consists 
in making good the enors of blundering predecessors. 
The greatest evil in the matter was simply a moral 
one : for he who would thus have supplanted me in 
the legitimate practice of my dearly purchased pro- 
fession, was one whom I had employed more than 
once in his own proper business. He had measured 
ground, laid down lines, and taken levels for me. 
If he were not humbled in thus assisting one who 
could have done without him, was he not presump- 
tuous in subsequently attempting to supersede his 
employer ? 

Not in the least : or, at any rate, he stands greatly 
excused ; for where is the man to whom money is 
necessary, who will not esteem himself at full the 
price which others seem ready to pay for him ? 

Charitably to speak it, perhaps there is no blame 
attachable to any party. The patron erred in igno- 
rance ; the surveyor from substantial necessity ; and 
the circumstances under which both have acted, are 
rather pitiful than criminal. 

No. Men individually must not be attacked. 
The manners of society, however, are free game ; 
and there is surely no harm in the statement of par- 
ticular examples when they are honestly pointed at 
the world in general, and with no invidious aim at 
the parties involved. Where is the Radical, who, 
having abused the half measures of the Whigs, or 
the Whig, who, having vituperated the whole mea- 
sures of the Tories, would not be proud to give his 


best fare to Earl Grey, or to take " pot luck'' with 
the Duke of WeUington ? 

Let manners and habits be amended ; but, till 
they are so, let men be forgiven. When a pervading 
propriety shall govern the world, it will be found to 
afford place and means for every man within it. 


Continued from page 133. 

We have the poetry of a voyage drawn by a talented 
native of this country. His apostrophe to a con- 
stellation not visible in our hemisphere, but familiar 
to many of my fair readers, from the tale of Paul 
and Virginia ; I say Mr. Osier's apostrophe to the 
Cross of the South is so beautiful that I make no 
apology for introducing it. 

" Fair Southern Cross ! tliou charm to every eye, 
The loved Shechinah of the templed sky ; 
Nursed in Rome's faith the wanderer on the sea 
Prefers his midnight orisons to thee." 

But to resume, — 

Critics have observed that nothing like a simile 
occurs throughout the first book of Homer : the poet, 
say they, bent on unfolding his fable, has no time to 
wSste on figures of rhetoric. Falconer's work, up 
to this point, has been open to nearly the same 
remark. The progress of the main design now 
admits of, requires even, every ornamental resource, 
every beauty of diction, that may diversify it; and 
accordingly we find similes thick strewn, 
*' Like leaves in V^allombrosa." 

The boatswain's voice heard through the storm, 
is like the hoarse bay of a mastiff; the wind flies on 
its quarry like a ruffian, and the ship labouring in 
the sea, is like a war horse reeling in the shock of 
battle. I shall merely refer to the beautiful simile 

ON falconer's shipwreck. 159 

of the gangrene and its amputation, as given in the 
closing lines of the 2nd. canto. 

Transition from the author's work to himself, when 
well executed, forms an effective figure in poetry. 
Milton's lament over his blindness, in opening the 
3rd. book of Paradise Lost, has never perhaps been 
equalled ; — what marvel then if, 

" A ship boy on the high and giddy mast," 
Should fail in comparison with him ? But Milton 
complains that he was shut out, 

" From sight of vernal rose or summer's bloom." 
The seaboy's regret is at being called away from 
rural life and its delights ; — 

^*To me those happier scenes no joy impart 
But tantalize with hope my aching heart," 

And then the fine turn into his more kindred theme. 
" Hail social honors ! " 

Some of the difficulties our poet had to contend 
with have been already noticed : there remain others 
of a nature to affect the reviewer equally with the 
work itself. Homer mentions that the names of 
persons and things, differed in the language of the 
gods, from what these commonly bore among men : 
— But on shore the language of the sea has neither 
place nor name. I approach with diffidence, and 
shall dispatch with all consistent brevity the tech- 
nicalities of the " Shipw^reck." 

A commentator on this poem has remarked, that 
" it partakes more of the effusions of fancy than of 
the labours of art ;" but this hardly allows Falconer 
all the credit due to him ; credit for the consummate 
skill with which he has versified — 

" The terms uncouth, and jarring phrases," 
of naval duty. Lord Byron fully admits this. 
^^ What," says he " makes Falconer's ^ Shipwreck' 
so infinitely superior to all others ? It is the admi- 
rable apphcation of the terms of art to his subject. 
His is a poet sailor's description of the sailor's fate — 
and how has he been able to perform this? because 
he was a poet, and in such hands art is not less 


ornamental than nature;" — now, Falconer, and 
perhaps Camoens, excepted ; no poet was ever more 
conversant with ocean than Byron himself; why 
then has he not in his own sea pieces, had more 
frequent recourse to such ornament ? It might be 
because such terms, however appropriate in them* 
selves, can hardly fail of impairing the general effect. 
Few are induced to take delight in what they do not 
understand — except ladies sometimes : and what 
landsman knows much of such mysteries as a " wea- 
ther earing," or the ** lee clue garnet." 

But let us see what Falconer himself thought of 
the matter ; and here it is of consequence to discrim- 
inate rightly between his somewhat amphibious 
character — as a seaman and as a poet. As the 
former^ Falconer is in no wise devoid of a sailor's 
pride in his art, he invokes the companions of similar 
toil for his judges; but with confidence of their 

" In practice train'd, and conscious of his power, 
The muse intrepid, meets the trying hour." 

And yet at other times he is found lamenting that 
his theme involved him in, 

"The wilderness of rude mechanic lore." 

As a foet he confesses that he has been entangled 
among such terms hke Daedalus in his Labyrinth, 
and exults when, Hke him, he has found wings to 
escape from them. 

The art of the poet, rose superior to those difficul- 
ties : he appealed, as it were, to the spirit of melan- 
choly to throw a charm over his rough notes, 
"And coming events cast tlieir shadows before.'* 

The first knell of death rings on us through the 
harshest sounds ; the loss of four seamen — washed 
overboard early in the gale, gives a plaintive interest 
to the subject; while the escape of Arion, hiYnself 
engaged in the same perilous duty, affords another 
notice of his identity with the author. 

One personage of the drama remains — Albert the 
shipmaster. The celebrated critic above quoted, 

ON falconer's shipwreck. 161 

remarks that the ^' two great characteristics of Ossi- 
an's poetry are tenderness and subHmity." Falco- 
ner's train of thought is uniformly grave and solemn, 
yet the native tenderness of his feelings breaks, at 
every turn, through the wild gloom around him. A 
glance over the character of Albert will illustrate 
this position. 

And here I must again observe that the " Ship- 
wreck," is a tale of modern life and manners; as 
such depriving Falconer of resources open to more 
ancient poets. Homer, in the simple but melodious 
language of the Odyssey can describe Eumseus as 
making his own shoes when Ulysses came to his 
door ; and this without impairing the dignity of his 
theme. Falconer had a more difficult task to per- 
form : — he was to preserve due elevation of thought, 
and yet be in keeping with the humbler station of 
his hero — the plebeian ship master. Lord Byron 
introduces such a personage in one of his dramas, 
but a foreigner and under the screen of a foreign 

" How ! did you say the patron of a galley ? '^ 

But to take Albert as he is drawn : and in him 
we find the qualities of a perfect seaman adorned by 
the admixture of every social virtue ; — his heart had 
passed unaffected from the boisterous element in 
which he had been trained. The poet's art is no 
where more to be admired than in throwing those 
soft traits over a spirit that 

" Rose with the storm and all its dangers shared." 
In every vicissitude his cottage home is still present 
to him ; his thoughts turn throusfh all to 

" The hope and pleasure of his life, 
A pious daughter, with a faithful wife." 

Campbell has partly noticed this ruling passion in 
Albert at the closing moment of his life : — 
" By Lonna's steep 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep : 
There, on his funeral waters dark and wild, 
The dying father blessed his darling child." 
VOL. v.— 1835. w 


I say partly ; because Falconer, in the last words of 
Albert, seems to have had in mind that beautiful 
passage in Ovid — 

" Plurima nautes in ore, 
Haley one conjux." 

The poet has found scope for the workin<x of yet 
other feelings. The friendship of Nisus and Eurya- 
lus, and the episode of their deaths in the 9th. Book 
of Virgil, were doubtless known to him : he has 
transferred some of its beauties into his own work ; 
where Arion and the young merchant are found united 
by similar ties. Sympathy for a lover's grief, kin- 
dred age, for the sailor had not yet numbered, 
"Twic^ nine summers;" 

These anticipated the want of longer intercourse. 
Their mutual regard is well introduced to soften the 
rigors of the tale ; we meet it as a spring in the 
desert. One instance of this may be adduced as 
aflTording perhaps the most striking metaphor of the 
poem. Palemon's fears keep pace with the storm's 
increase ; the consolation of the friend soothes what 
the skill of the seaman would avert; 

" His drooping spirit cheers with healing art, 
And tunes the jarring numbers of the heart." 

I have taken the moral and poetical beauties of 
the " Shipwreck '* rather indiscriminately ; let us 
review one or more which incline to the latter class. 

The " Shipwreck '' is most complete in a principle 
requisite to a good epic — unity of action in its fable. 
In the time occupied by the action. Falconer has 
complied with another rule of sound criticism ; it 
hardly reaches to the sixth day. The author of the 
" Pleasures of Hope," has fallen into an error which 
I venture on pointing out. Campbell makes the 
wreck occur, 

" At the dead of night," 
^ hereas in the original it takes place in the morning. 
The poet makes a fine turn from this hopeless state 
at day break to apostrophize the sun. 

ON falconer's shipwreck. 163 

" Oh yet in clouds, thou genial source of light, 
Conceal thy radiant glories." 

Homer's picture of the stars, with a solitary shep- 
herd gazing on them, cannot be too much admired ; 
Falconer approaches an imitation of this in two in-^ 
stances. The ship ghding along the shore of Candia, 

"Majestically slow before the breeze/' 
presents too beautiful an object to remain without 
admirers : accordingly we have the Candiotes lining 
the beach to look on her and 

" Hear the shrill whistle which doth order give 
To sounds confused." 

The other is a darker scene, the officers meet in 
consultation by night in the vessel's cabin. Pale- 
mon, says the poet, looked on in fear ; as when a 
swain has discovered the midnight conclave of 

" Trembling approached their incantations fell, 
And chilled with horror heard the songs of hell." 

Of the use of metaphor one instance must suffice, 

" The impatient axe hung gleaming in his hands." 
But the subject warns me to proceed : I shall not 
follow the poet in his digressive range over 
" The Isles of Greece, the Isles of Greece, 
Where burning Sappho loved and sung." 

We must like him tear ourselves from these and 
the haunts of the muses, to hold converse with the 
spirits of the storm. 

In every change the sea is still beautiful ; beauti- 

*' By the moon's pale light, 
With her long ray of glory that we mark 
On the wild waves when all beside is dark." 

And beautiful no less in the midst of perils. 
" Through the gloom of night 
The glimmering watch tower casts a mournful light." 

What shall we say to these sketches, when the 
half educated sailor is brought into contact with a 
scholar, and a poet united — with George Crabbe ? 

To be eoncliided in om next. 

m^ 164 


About three o 'clock, p. m., when we were within ten miles of 
the Cape, without any appearance of the tender, we fell in with 
a Liverpool trader, who was bound to the Brass River to load 
palm oil and sandalwood. She reported that the niglit before 
they had come across a Spaniard, who fired into them, when they 
sheered to with an intent to speak him. The master said, that 
when first seen, the strange sail was standing right in for the 
river ahead of us ; and, from the noises he heard, he was sure he 
had negroes on board. It was therefore conjectured that she 
was one of the vessels who had taken in part of her cargo of 
slaves at the Bonny River, and was now bound for the Nun or 
Brass River to complete it. They were if anything more con- * 
firmed in this by the circumstance of his keeping away, and 
standing to the south-west, the moment he found they were 
hauling in for the land, as if anxious to mislead them, by inducing 
a belief that he was off for the West Indies or Brazil. This was 
the sum total of the information received from the Liverpool-man; 
but the same afternoon we fell in with an American, who rejoiced 
our hearts by saying that he had that morning been chased by a 
vessel answering the description of the felucca, and immediately 
after we hove about, and stood out to sea again, making sail in 
the direction indicated. 

The next forenoon I was the officer of the watch, and, about 
nine o' clock the Commodore, who had just come on deck, 
addressed me : — *' Mr. Brail, do you see any thing of the small 
hooker yet, to windward there?" 

** I thought I saw something like her, sir, about half an hour 
ago, but a blue haze has come rolling down, and I cannot make 
any thing out at present." 

*' She must be thereabouts somewhere, however," continued 
he, " as she was seen yesterday by the Yankee brig, — so keep by 
the wind until four bells, Mr. Brail, and then call me, if you 

" Ay, ay, sir ; " and I resumed my walk on the weather side 
of the quarter-deck. 

As the breeze freshened the mist blew, off", and, unexpectedly 
enough, although we knew she must be in our neighbourhood, 
in half an hour afterwards the felucca was seen about three miles 
to windward of us, staggering along before it like a large nautilus 
under her solitary lateen sail, and presently she was close aboard 
of us. 


I was looking steadfastly at the little vessel as she came rolling 
down before the wind, keeping my eye, some how or other, on 
the man that was bending on the ensign haulyards. He immed- 
iately began to hoi^t away the ensign, until it reached about half- 
way between the end of the long drooping, wire-like yard and the 
deck, where the man jerked it upwards and downwards for a 
minute, as if irresolute whether to run it choke up, or haul it 
down again ; at length it did hang half-mast-high, and blew out 

My mind suddenly misgave me, and I looked for the pennant; 
it was also hoisted half-mast — " Alas ! alas ! poor Donovan," I 
involuntarily exclaimed — but loud enough to be overheard by 
the Commodore who stood by — "another victim to this horrid 

" What is wrong, Mr. Brail ? " said Sir. Oliver. 

" I fear Mr. Donovan is dead, sir. The felucca's ensign and 
pennant are half-mast, sir." 

" Bless me, no — surely not," said the excellent old man, — 
" hand me the glass, Mr. Brail. Too true — too true — where is 
all this to end ? " said he with a sigh. 

The felucca was now within long pistol-shot of our weather- 
quarter, standing across our stern, with the purpose of rounding- 
to under our lee. At this time Sir Oliver was looking out close 
by the tafFerel, with his trumpet in his hand. I was still peering 
through the glass. " Why, there is the strangest figure come on 
deck, on board the Midge, that ever I saw — what can it be? 
Sir Oliver, will you please to look at it ? " 

The Commodore took the glass with the greatest good humour, 
while he handed me his trumpet, — " Really," said he, " I cannot 
tell — Mr. Sprawl, can you ? " Sprawl (the first lieutenant) — 
honest man — took his spell at the telescope — but he was equally 
unsuccessful. The figure that was puzzling us, was a half-naked 
man, in his shirt and trousers, with a large blue shawl bound 
round his head, who had suddenly jumped on deck, with a 
hammock thrown over his shoulders as if it had been a dressing . 
gown, the clue hanging half-way down his back, while the upper 
part of the canvass shroud was lashed tightly round his neck, 
but so as to leave his arms and legs free scope; and there he was- 
strutting about with the other clue trailing away astern of him, 
like the train of a lady's gown, as if he had in fact been arrayed 
in what was anciently called a curricle-robe. Over this extraor- 
dinary array, the figure had slung a formidable Spanish trabiwo, 


or blunderbuss, across his body; and one hand, as he walked 
backwards and forwards on the small confined deck of the felucca, 
held a large green silk umbrella over his head, although the sail 
of itself was shade enough at the time, while the other clutched 
a speaking trumpet. 

The craft, freighted with this uncouth apparition, was very 
peculiar in appearance. She had been a Spanish gun-boat — 
originally a twin-sister to one that we had, during the war, cut 
out from Rosas Bay. She was about sixty feet long over all, 
and seventeen feet beam, her deck being as round as her bottom ; 
in fact she was more like a long cask than any thing else, and 
without exception the roomiest vessel of her size that I ever saw. 
She had neither bulwarks, nor quarters, nor rail, nor in fact any 
ledge whatsoever round the gunnel, so she had no use for 
scuppers. Her stern peaked up like a New Zealand war-canoe, 
tapering away to a point, which was perforated to receive the 
rudder-head, while forward she had a sharp beak, shaped like 
the proa of a Roman galley ; but she was as strong as wood and 
iron could make her — her bottom being a perfect bed of timbers, 
so that they might almost have been caulked — and tight as a 
bottle. What answered to a bowsprit was a short, thick thumb 
of a stick about ten feet high, that rose at an angle of thirty 
degrees to the deck of the vessel ; and she had only one mast, a 
strong stump of a spar, about thirty feet high, stayed well forward, 
in place of raking aft, high above which rose the large lateen sail 
already mentioned, with its long, elastic, spliced and respliced 
yard, tapering away up into the sky until it seemed no thicker 
than the small end of a fishing rod, which it greatly resembled, 
when bent by the weight of the line and bait. It was ofjmmense 
length, and consisted of more than half-a-dozen different pieces. 
Its heavy iron-shod heel was shackled by a chain a fathom lon;^^, 
to a strong iron bar, or bolt, that extended athwart the forepart 
of the little vessel, close to the end of the bowsprit, and to which 
it could be hooked and unhooked, as need were, when the little 
vessel tacked, and it became necessary to jibe the sail. 

The outlandish-looking craft slowly approached, and we were 
now within hail. ** I hope nothing is amiss with Mr. Don- 
ovan ?" sung out the Commodore. 

" By the powers, but there is tl^ough ! " promptly replied the 
curious figure with the trumpet and umbrella, in a strong clear 
voice. A pause. 


All our glasses were by this time levelled at the vessel, and 
ever} one more puzzled than another what to make of this. 

" Who are you, sir? " again asked the Commodore. " Where 
is Mr. Donovan, sir?'' 

Here Mr. Binnacle, a midshipman on board, hailed us through 
his hand, but we could not hear him ; on which the man in the 
hammock struck him, without any warning, across the pate with 
bis trumpet. The midshipman and the rest of the crew, we 
could see, now drew close together forward, and, from their 
gestures, seemed to be preparing to make a rush upon the figure 
who had hailed. 

Sir Oliver repeated his question — " Who are you, sir ? " 

" Who am I, did you say? That 's a good one," was the 

" Why, Sir Oliver," said I, " I believe that is Mr. Donovan 
himself. Poor fellow, tie must have gone mad." 

" No doubt of it — it is so, sir," whistled Sprawl. 

Here the crew of the felucca, led by little Binnacle, made a 
rush, and seized the Lieutenant, and having overpowered him, 
they launched their little shallop, in which the midshipman, with 
two men, instantly shoved off; but they had not paddled half-a- 
dozen yards from the felucca's side, when the maniac, a most 
powerful man, broke from the men that held him, knocked them 
down, right and left, like so many nine-pins, and, seizing his 
trabnco, pointed it at the skiff, while he sung out in a voice of 
thunder — "Come back, Mr. Binnacle; comeback, you small 
villain, or I will shoot you dead." 

The poor lad was cowed, and did as he was desired. 

"Lower away the jolly boat," cried the Commodore; but, 
checking himself, he continued — " Gently, men — belay there — 
keep all fast with the boat, Mr. Brail," — I had jumped aft to 
execute the order — " We must humour the poor fellow, after all, 
who is evidently not himself." 

I could hear a marine of the name of Lennox, who stood by, 
whisper to his neighbour — " Ay, Sir Oliver, better fleech with a 
madman than fecht with him." 

" Are you Mr. Donovan, pray ? " said the Commodore mildly, 
but still speaking through the trumpet. 

" I WU8 that gentleman," was the startling answer. 

" Then come on board, man ; come on board," in a wheedling 


*• How would you have me to do that thing? " said poor Don- 
ovan. "Come on board, did you say? Divil now, Sir Oliver, 
you are mighty unrasonable." 

His superior officer was somewhat shoved off his balance by 
this reply from his Lieutenant, and rapped out fiercely enough 
— " Come on board this instant, sir, or by the Lord, I — " 

" How can 1 do that thing, and me dead since three bells in 
the middle watch last night ? '' This was grumbled as it were 
through his trumpet, but presently he shouted out as loud as he 
could bellow — " I can 't come ; and, what 's more, I won't ; 
for I died last night, and am to be buried whenever it goes eight 
bells at noon." 

" Dead ! '* said the Commodore, now seriously angry. " Dead, 
did he say? Why, he is drunk, gentlemen, and not mad. 
There is always sojne method in madness ; here there is none." 
Till recollecting himself — " Poor fellow, let me try him a little 
farther; but really it is too absurd" — as he looked round and 
observed the difficulty both officers and men had in keeping 
countenance — " Let me humour him- a little longer," continued 
he. " Pray, Mr. Donovan, how can you be dead, and speaking 
to me now ? " 

"Because," said Donovan, promptly, "I have a forenoon's 
leave from purgatory to see myself decently buried, Sir Oliver." 

Here we could no longer contain ourselves, and, notwithstand- 
ing the melancholy and humiliating spectacle before us, a shout 
of laughter burst from all hands simultaneously, as the Commo- 
dore, exceedingly tickled, sung out — " Oh, 1 see how it is — I see 
— so do come on board, Mr. Donovan, and we will see you 
properly buried." 

" You see, Sir Oliver ! " said the poor fellow ; " to be sure 
you do — a blind horse might persave it." 

" I say, Dennis, dear," said I, " I will be answerable that all 
the honors shall be paid you." But the deceased Irishman was 
not to be had so easily, and again refused, point-blank to leave 
the Midge. 

" Lower away the boat there, Mr. Sprawl," said Sir Oliver; 
"no use in all this; you see he won 't come. Pipe away her 
crew ; and, Mr. Brail, do you hear, take half-a-dozen marines 
with you. So, brisk now — brisk — be off. Take the surgeon 
with you, and spill no blood if you can help it, ♦but bring that 
poor fellow on board instantly, cost what it may." 


I shoved off— two of the marines being stuck well forward in 
the bows, the remaining four being seated beside me on the 
stern-sheets. Instantly we were alongside — " What cheer Don- 
ovan, my darling ? How are you, man, and how do ye all do ? " 
"Ah, Benjamin, glad to see you, my boy. I hope you have 
come to read the service : I 'm to be buried at noon, you know." 
" Indeed ! " said I, " I know nothing of the kind. I have 
come on board from the Commodore to know how you are ; he 
thought you had been ill." 

"Very much obliged," continued the poor fellow; " all that 
sort of thing might have brought joy some days ago — but 


"Well, well, Donovan," said I, "come on board with me, 
and buried you shall be, comfortably from the frigate." 

" Well, I will go. This cursed sailmaker of ours has twice 
this morning refused to lash me up in the hammock, because he 
chose to say I was not dead ; so go with you I will." 

The instant the poor fellow addressed himself to enter the 
boat, he shrank back. " I cannot — I cannot. Sailmaker, bring 
the shot aft, and do lash me up in my hammock, and heave me 
comfortably overboard at once." 

The poor sailmaker, who was standing close to, caught my 
eye, and my ear also. " What shall I do, sir? " said he. 
I knew the man to be a steady, trustworthy person. 
" Why, humour him, W^alden ; humour him. Fetch the shot, 
and lash him up ; but sling him round the waist by a strong 
three-inch rope, do you hear." 

The man touched his forehead, and slunk away. Presently 
he returned with the cannon-balls slung in a canvass bag, the 
usual receptacle of his needles, palms, and thread, and deliber- 
ately fastened them round Mr. Donovan's legs. He then lashed 
him up in the hammock, coaxing his arms under the swathing, 
so that presently, while I held him in play, he had regularly 
sewed him up into a most substantial straight waistcoat. It 
would have been laughable enough, if risibility had been par- 
donable under such melancholy circumstances, to look at the 
poor fellow as he stood stiff and upright, like a bolt of canvass, 
on the deck, swaying about, and balancing himself, as the vessel 
rolled about on the heave of the sea; but by this time the sail- 
maker had fastened the rope round his waist, one end of which 
was in the clutch of three strong fellows, with plenty of the slack 
VOL. v. — 1835. X 


coiled down and at hand, had it proved necessary to pay out, and 
give him scope. 

** Now, Donovan, dear, come into the boat; do, and let us get 
on board, will ye ? " 4 

" Benjamin Brail, I expected kindlier tilings at your hands, 
Benjie. How can I go on board of the old Gazelle, seeing it has 
gone six bells, and 1 'm to be hove overboard at twelve o' clock ? '^ 

I saw there was nothing else for it, so I whispered little 
Binnacle to strike eight bells. At the first chime, poor Donovan 
pricked up his ear; at the second, he began to settle himself on 
deck ; and before the last struck, ^he was stretched out on a 
grating with his eyes closed, and really as still and motionless as 
if he had been actually dead. I jumped on. board, muttered a 
sentence or two, from recollection, from the funeral service, and 
tipping the wink, we hove him bodily, stoop and roop, overboard, 
where he sank for a couple of fathoms, when we hauled him up 
again. When he sank, he was much excited, and flushed, and 
feverish, to look at ; but when he was now got into the boat, he 
was still enough, God knows, and very blue and ghastly ; his 
features were sharp and pinched, and he could only utter a low 
moaning noise, when we had stretched him along the bottom of 
the boat. " Mercy ! " said I, " surely my experiment has not 
killed him." However, my best plan now was to get back to 
the frigate as soon as might be, so I gave the word to shove off, 
and in a' minute we were all on the Gazelle's quarterdeck, poor 
Donovan being hoisted up, ^ashed into an accommodation chair. 
He was instantly taken care of, and, in our excellent surgeon's 
hands, I am glad to say that he recovered, and lived to be an 
ornament to the service, and a credit to all connected with him 
for many a long day afterwards. 

The first thing little Binnacle did was to explain to Sir Oliver 
that poor Donovan had been ill for three days with brain fever, 
having had a stroke of the sun; but aware of the heavy responsi- 
bility of taking forcibly the command of a vessel from one's 
superior officer, he was allowed to have it all his own way until 
the Gazelle hove in sight. 

After little Binnacle had made his report to Sir Oliver, he, 
with an arch smile, handed me the following letter open, which 
I have preserved to this hour for the satisfaction of the curious. 
Many a time have I since laughed and cried over this production 
of poor Donovan's heated brain. , 


" My dear Brail, — When you receive this I shall be at rest far 
down amongst the tanglevveed and coral branches at the bottom 
.of the deep green sea, another sacrifice to the insatiable demon 
of this evil climate — another melancholy addition to the long list 
of braver and better men who have gone before me. Heaven 
•knows, and I know, and lament with much bitterness therefore, 
that I am ill prepared to die, but I trust to the mercy of the 
Almighty for pardon and forgiveness. 

" It is now a week since I was struck by a flash of lightning 
at noon-day, when there was not a speck of cloud in the blue 
sky, that glanced like a fiery dart right down from the fierce sun, 
and not having my red woollen nightcap on, that I purchased 
three years ago from old Jabos of Belfast, the Jew who kept a 
stall near the quay, it pierced through the skull just in the centre 
of the bald spot, and set my brain a .boiling and poppling ever 
since, making a noise for all the world like a buzzing bee-hive; 
so that I intend to depart this life at three bells in the middle 
watch this very night, wind and weather permitting. Alas, alas ! 
who, shall tell this to my dear old mother. Widow Donovan, who 
lives at No. 1050, in Sackville Street, Dublin, the widest tho- 
roughfare in Europe ? — or to poor Cathleen O'Haggarty ? You 
know Catbleen, Benjie; but you must never know that she has 
a glass eye — Ah, yes, poor thing, she had but one eye, but that 
was a beauty, the other was a quaker ;* but then she had five 
thousand good sterling pounds, all in old Peter Macshane's 
bank at the back of the Exchange ; and so her one eye was a 
blessing to me ; for where is the girl with two eyes, and five 
thousand pounds, all lodged in Peter Macshane's bank at the 
back of the Exchange, who would have looked at Dennis 
Donovan, a friendless, penniless lieutenant in the Royal Navy, 
and son of Widow Donovan, who lives at 1050, Sackville Street, 
Dublin, the widest thoroughfare in Europe — Ah how Cathleen 
will pipe her real eye — I wonder if she will weep with the false 
one — I am sure my story might bring tears from a stone, far 
more a piece of glass — Oh, when she hears I am gone, she will 
be after breaking her tender little heart — Oh, murder for the 
notion of it — that 's the thought that I can 't bear — that is the 
blow that kills Ned ! The last words of Dennis Donovan, who 
has nothing on earth to brag of beside a mighty pretty person, 
and a brave soul — that 's a good one. Adieu, adieu. God 

* A ;<ham wooden iimi. 


bless the King and the Royal Family entirely. Dennis Dono- 
van, Lieutenant, R. N.; and son of Widow Donovan, who 
lives at 1050, Sackville Street, Dublin, the widest thoroughfare in 


It was the sweetest — stillest hour 

Of Autumn's golden eventide : 
No rude wind touched the closing flowers : 

No ripple murmured on the tide. 

All things were sleeping — and the blush 
Of beauty glowed on earth and sky ; 

The glen sent up its last sweet gush ; 
The zephyr's wing was resting nigh. 

And Evening looked in love below 

O'er hill and valley — dale and sea 
One lone star on her quiet brow 

Flung out a small, still radiancy. 

Nature slept on — each winding stream 

Forgot its daylight song awhile. 
The field flowers closed their eyes to dream ; 

The bending daisy veiled its smile. 

Night rose ! The waveless lake expressed, 

In softer glory, every gem 
That sparkled on her sombre vest 

Or quivered in her diadem. 

Still all lay hushed— Still Nature slept 
Like one beyond the reach of woes : 

For very depth of joy I wept. 
While gazing on such sweet repose. 

Who would not flee his daily thrall 

And yield to such benignant sway 
As man, the boasted lord of all. 

Can neither give nor take away, 

E. B. 



A MAN, whose mind is softened with a little feeling, will allow 
few objects to pass his notice, without deriving interest therefrom ; 
and if he be highly sensitive, a large field must open before him, 
in which he can either occupy his agreeable leisure, or pursue his 
odd likings. Let it, therefore, be supposed, that such a character 
was applicable to my friend, since any other would be inconsis- 
tent; and then it may be admitted, that, while he stood conspi- 
cuous for affection among the more noble of his household, a 
diverging ray might extend in the name of attachment to the 
igr^oble ; and that he might therefore like a tabby cat, which, 
indeed, forms the only subject of the present lengthy communi- 

At the time of the catastrophe, Tabby's master was a bachelor; 
and having leisure promoting inclination, like, perhaps, the single 
of the other sex, he shewed great attention to all the instinctive 
movements of his pussy. This attention was either so becomingly 
appreciated or kindly repaid by his cat, that she invariably re- 
lieved him from the necessity of a call ; for where he was, she 
managed to be in juxta-position, or pretty nearly so. At meal 
times, in particular, she took her seat with such orderly silence, 
as induced her master to hold her up as a suitable example to 
little misbehaved bipeds. At night, she would follow him to his 
bedroom door, take the mat for her couch; and in the morning 
would greet him with a kindly purr, and accompany him, stair 
by stair, tail erect, and stop as he might stop, for the agreeable 
purpose of witnessing her sagacity. These qualities \{ not great, 
were good in a cat ; and therefore frequently formed the subject 
of conversation. 

How long thus happily puss and her master lived, I cannot to 
a day or two determine ; but it could not be less than three 
years, and that period of comfort might have extended to the 
present, had it not been for the intrusion of another of her 
species, which my friend no sooner saw, than he opened his 
hospitable door, and took the stranger in. This cat was not half 
grown, but, looking cleanly, was allowed a few minutes dalliance 
upon 'the knee of Tabby's master, and in this caressed position, it 
was first seen by the household pussy. It was an indulgence 
not even allowed to Tabby, but whether she felt so much, must 
be left to the nice determination of the philosophic zoologist. 
Be this as it may, it is necessary to remark, in support of her 


master's character, that she was neither forgotten nor forsaken. 
The vacant knee was offered to her, and on it she was placed, it 
being her master's wish to reconcile the furry strangers. The 
hope of friendly introduction was however vain, though it proved 
remarkably pacific ; for the little cat was probably too young to 
quarrel, and the greater too well-bred. Tabby left her master's 
knee and disdained his attentions — loathed the food which was 
placed before her — and walked off at a pace slow, and in a 
manner the most dejected. Fancying this whim would wear 
away, he took no farther notice, but " hied him to his labour," 
and left the cats at their ease. When the shop was closed, and 
supper ended, he drew his chair to the fire, as was his usual 
custom ; an inquiry was then made after tabby ; but none having 
seen her since the morning, no additional question was put ; so 
that sleep soon followed, and thought was postponed till the 

The morning arrived, but with it no tabby companion; neither 
was the young cat to be seen. Breakfast time followed, but no 
cats appeared. Dinner time approached, still unoccupied was 
the hearth rug. " What can have become of the cats ? " was the 
remark of both master and maid — and indeed, of all. Such a 
circumstance was little short of a mystery to my sensitive friend, 
and he began to feel a concern far greater than many stoical 
souls would allow ; but he could not help it ; 

•' A man of feeling to his beast is kind : " 

And if ever a man lived deserving this epithet, he, in his sphere, 
stood pre-eminently conspicuous. 

A grave consultation now took place, which decided that a 
thorough search should be made for the cats, and so. great was 
the interest of tlie household, .that the shop 'itself, in the mean 
time, could find no better guardian than the youngest apprentice. 

To effect this "important discovery," their duties were thus 
apportioned. Master took the closed warerooms, thinking, that 
from Tabby's /br»2er fondness she might have followed him into 
one, and he had shut the door upon her. , The maid took the bed- 
rooms, and their appurtenances; and others, the outhouses, &c. 
A quarter of an hour had elapsed without success, and the 
matter began to grow yet more mysterious, till, at length, my 
friend recollected the underground cellar, which in the earnestness 
of search had been omitted ; and there, high on an empty tea 
chest, he found poor Tabby, living it is true, but seated 

* " Like patience on a monument, 

" . Smiling at grief." 


With an almost childish eagerness, he communicated the glad 
tidings to the household ; and being desirous of observing " her 
utmost stretch of intellect," as he termed it, he requested that a 
small portion of milk might be brought, and set before the cat; 
while he placed himself in his chair to watch her proceedings. 
The milk was not at the moment agreeably palatable. In about 
a quarter of an hour pussy arose, and weakly drawing her body 
by her master's legs, surveyed the parlour, smelled at the cup- 
board doors — entered the kitchen adjoining, and then made the 
circuit of the stairs — returning, she approached her master, and 
lapped up the milk. 

My friend, like his cat, felt once more " at home," and being 
satisfied that this remarkable change was occasioned by the 
unsolicited visit of the stranger, he gave explicit directions, that 
if it again appeared, an inquiry should be instituted among his 
neighbours, as to owner aiiip, and if not claimed, it should be 
given away ; but on no account allowed to remain a guest in his 
house. His own tabby had now become doubly interesting. 
For the first time he noticed her extraordinary physical proportions 
— discovered that she was remarkably small for her age — her ears 
were more round — her stripes more regular — her colors bolder — 
and her sagacity far surpassing that of any other of her species. 
From a man of feeling he became a man of scientific observation ; 
and if truth could decide, valued his tabby even more than the 
celebrated Whittington did the cat of his fortune ^nd civic conse- 

Not many hours, however, after my friend had expressed his 
pleasure to the maid, the little cat re-appeared. It entered, as 
was supposed, through the passage, the door of which was then 
open; and a collar of red ribband around its neck, removed all 
fear of destitution. It pursued its course to the fire place, unob- 
served by the slumbering tabby ; but the moment it approached, 
so near as to touch her. Tabby gave a sudden spring, and, soft- 
ening by degrees her erect fur, walked slowly off, and left the 
stranger in undisputed possession of the fire place. This occurred 
on Saturday, which, being a day of bustle to the maid, and busi- 
ness to the master, no farther notice was taken of the cats, 
beyond a ready compliance with instructions, which gave young 
pussy to the street, and the passage door power of opposing 
renewed intrusion. The Sunday was a day of absence. On 
Monday, at dinner time. Tabby was inquired for, but none of the 
parlour guests had seen her. In the evening the inquiry was 


renewed, wheii the maid related what had happened ; but no 
disposition was shewn by my friend to prosecute a candle-light 
search among loose straw and other ignitable substances. In 
the morning he was the first stirring, and the first discoverer of 
Tabby's petreat, which was near her formerly selected spot, but 
more elevated. There he found her, insensible to call or caress, 
for she lay cold and lifeless. 

Although in this paper, much of feline instinct has been 
omitted, from forgetfulness, I may be excused an expression of 
my friend's feelings, beyond the assurance, that never was a 
favorite cat more deeply lamented. Its memory is however 
cherished. The skin is preserved as a wrapper or wallet, in 
which are inclosed, " to this day," all little ctirious quisquilUa ; 
and whenever shewn, the high character of its once /air possessor 
is sure to form a very amusing half-hour's detail. 

John R. B. 


To the Editor of the " South Devon Monthly Museum'' 

Sir, The insertion of the following queries will greatly oblige, 

Yours &c. 
A Constant Reader. 

1st. On what principle can we account for the apparently in- 

. creased magnitude of the Moon's disc, at the time of her rising, 

when viewed under ordinary circumstances; while at the same 

time if viewed through a tube or even tlirougli a hand partly 

closed, she appears no larger than when on the meridian ? 

2nd. What causes the change of color in polished steel, while 
undergoing the process of tempering ? 

3rd. What law of mechanics, will account for the superior 
power of a long screw-driver, though the handle be no larger than 
that of a short one ? 

4tli. \Miy does a wedge shaped piece of timber require less 
force to draw it through water, with the butt end than with the 
sharp end foremost ? 

5th. In what manner do the rays of the Sun act, to produce 
that deadening influence, so observable when they shine on the fire ? 




January 29th. — Mr. Purdon's Lecture on Ireland. 

After some preliminary observations, the Lecturer proceeded 
to examine into the causes t)f the evils of Ireland, on the testi- 
mony of history, and to show that the policy observed towards 
that country compelled the mass of people to become barbarous. 

Ireland had been severely and unskilfully dealt with prior to 
the Union— she was deprived of her manufacturing industry — 
her commerce was extremely reduced, and she was left without 
the means of acquiring true religious instruction, national educa- 
tion and useful knowledge ; because England would not come 
down to the vernacular idiom. These circumstances subsequently 
compelled the Irish to become barbarous. 

The harsh and injudicious conduct of Ireland's legislators 
would be strikingly contrasted by that of the kind and wise 
Agricola, the Roman conqueror of Briton, who treated his newly 
acquired subjects as friends and children — not as slaves and 
enemies. The stern Norman conquerer of England, governed 
by the same laws, which had existed prior to his descent upon 
the Island ; and Edward 1st, communicated the English laws to 
the Welsh, after he had conquered their country ; in short, every 
where but in Ireland, the maxim seemed to be 

" Tros, Tyriusque mihi nullo discrimine habetur." 

There indeed had been practised that Machiavelian policy 
" Divide et impera." 

The English statesmen of that period took advantage of the 
religious dissensions between the Protestants and Catholics to 
treat the country with a more selfish policy than ever was exer- 
cised towards any colony however distant or degraded. 

When a government was first organized, an attempt was 
made to rule Ireland by an interest purely English, but the 
native interests so increased as to paralyze the government whilst 
some of them tended to demoralize the wronged population. 

Then succeeded an attempt to govern the country by means of 
undertakers, who were Irishmen by birth, and possessed of influ- 
ence.' These persons acted as deputy Lords Lieutenant, and 
managed the public affairs during the continued and long absences 
of the Viceroys; but this scheme was replete with evils and 
effected no good purpose. British statesmen who had some 
VOL. V. — 1835. X 


part to perform in directing the administration, and appointing 
the rulers of Ireland, were lamentably ignorant of the real state 
of the country, and took very little trouble to enquire into the 
subject. Agitators too were never wanting to keep the people 
continually in a disturbed and insubordinate state. 

The Revolution of 1688, which established the freedom of 
Britain, had no such advantage for Ireland, her people were not 
allowed the privileges of freemen, they had no Bill of Rights — 
no Habeas Corpus Writ, and they were deprived of their com- 
mercial interests. The latter was done in order to advance t!ie 
commercial advantages of England. By arbitrary acts, in the 
reigns of Charles II. and William III., her woollen manufactory 
was virtually annihilated, and the country was plunged into the 
depth of misery. By mock bounty, the linen manufacture was 
given in lieu, which was uncongenial to the climate and habits of 
the people, and entailed a loss of 800 per cent, per annum, in 
prime cost alone. 

Thus was the Irish government in times past not a system but 
an entanglement, partly from false principles of commerce — 
chiefly from carelessness in the arrangements of the state, and a 
want, in the outset, of proper governors to reside in the country, 
and perform their duties in person. 

Since the Union, Ireland has been gradually improving, and 
recovering herself, peace and prosperity have been located wher- 
ever the people have been able to find emploi/ment, though the 
reverse is the case where there is no demand for their main strength, 
labour-capital. They are willing to work, and to do more than 
most others would do, and those who treat them kindly might 
have at command their hearts — their lives — their all : as a proof 
of this, it may be shown, that in Ulster there is as much peace 
and security for property as in any part of England. 

There must then be some mismanagement in certain places : 
this could be remedied by a Board of Review, which should 
examine minutely and carefully into the condition and capability 
of the whole island, and declare the result to a permanent govern- 
ment of uniform cimsistenci/ ; it would then be enabled to act in 
the light — not in the dark. Such a board would also afford 
numberless other important advantages. 

From certain uncontroverted facts which have lately been made 
public, it is evident, that many improvements, incompatible with 
vmiversal anarchy are ])rogressing, and that local disturbances 
will be quelled, by the me;\ns which are in action for that purpose. 


In order to provide for the want of security, skill and money- 
capital, and also to provide employment for the people; the 
lecturer suggested that a full dominion should be given to the 
law, to guarantee to each man the fruits of his labour — that joint 
stock companies should obtain a right over uncultivated reclaim- 
able land — that the improvement should commence on a prin- 
ciple of colonization — that the workmen should have allotments 
of land, which would stimulate them to exertion, whilst their 
increasing numbers would be a defence against the assaults of 
jealous neighbours; and that the operative part should be under 
the direction of practised agriculturists. 

The lecturer next proceeded to show by a fair calculation, that 
all monies invested by companies, would yield from 10 to 15 per 
cent, interest. 

Such a scheme would also prove beneficial to England, for 
the Irish labourer finding employment at home, would not have 
to emigrate to England in search of it; so that the English 
labourer would not be undersold in the price of his work, and 
consequently the poor rates would not be so heavy. But as all 
poor persons could not at once be employed in the mode above 
mentioned, a system of public works might also be carried on, 
such as road and bridge making, bog draining and river clearing, 
as should seem best — these works ought to have a prospect of 
continuance. In order that the peasant should rather be en- 
gaged in agriculture, than government work ; the wages given by 
the latter should be less than those paid by the companies, whilst, 
at the same time, the workman should be under no restraint, but 
be permitted to engage himself for a longer or shorter period. 

The lecturer proceeded at some length to show the importance 
of having the land cultivated in small farms ; he contrasted 
these with large farms, in order to show the advantage of the 
former, especially under such cirumstances as he had been pro- 

It was not merely needful to provide physical employment for 
the Irish, they should have mental education and religious 
instruction conveyed to them through the medium of their own 
tongue : one peculiarly important effect would result from this, 
viz. a counteraction would be opposed to the influence of certain 
men, who acting as guides- to the people, had it in their power to 
do much good or much evil, and they unfortunately very often 
held the people under a species of tyranny, perverted their 
thoughts and actions to the worst ends, and instilled into their 


minds prejudices hurtful to their own happiness, and dangerous 
to the well being of society. Wherever the power of these guides 
was great, disturbance and insubordination prevailed, and vice 
versa; as might be shown by contrasting Ulster with certain other 
parts of the Island. 

The lecturer concluded his highly important paper to the 
following effect. Ireland does not require any pecuniary gratuity. 
A gift of a million divided among the people, would be like the 
alms of a penny to an importunate beggar, which only mcites him 
to go to the nearest gin shop to drink away his sorrows — such 
gifts only help the poor to beg again. Ireland requires attentioriy 
not money, and for capital laid out there, a large rental would be 
received, the capital itself would be improved and substantially 
increased from 300, to 400 per cent. Ireland requires to be aided 
by the enterprise, spirit, skill, good sense and understanding of 
England: which would swell her own national income and 
enrich England — would make her income exceed her expenditure, 
by £6 or 7,000,000., and would place the surplus to the credit of 
Britain. England would thus gain positively an annual sum of 
£9 or 10,000,000.; because she would no longer be obliged to 
make up the deficiency of Ireland's revenue; she would find not 
only that supplied — but also a surplus. 

February 5th. — Mr. Prideaux's Lecture on Thermo- 
Electric it I/. 
The subject being new, and hitherto little published; the Lectu- 
rer displayed the leading experiments of his former lecture, by 
way of introduction; by which it was shown that zinc and bis- 
muth warmed together, give an electric current, capable of 
diverting the magnetic needle. That, with instruments of greater 
delicacy, a similar current is detected in any two metals; and 
even in two pieces of the same metal, at different temperatures ; 
exhibiting, in the latter case, an essential difference among the 
metals ; those at the head of the series, giving the positive current 
with that of heat; the others against it. Whence an inference 
was drawn, that the thermo-electric order depended on this 
difference, modified by conduction. 

With this hypothesis, however, cadmium was shewn not to 
agree : and some alloys of the most active thermo-electric metals 
present still greater anomalies. This property was shown to be 
exalted by softening, and weakened by hardening the metals 


The Lecturer supposed that thermo-electricity is perhaps de- 
veloped by elective affinity ; as the electric fluid was proved to 
be compound. But such elective affinity has not yet been 

It was subsequently shown that electricity can be decomposed 
by metallic contact in galvanism; notwithstanding the demon- 
strative experiment of Dr. Faraday : and that simple metallic 
contact, even without the aid of heat or liquid, was capable of 
such decomposition. 

The paper was concluded by a summary of our present know- 
ledge of thermo-electricity, and the practical application of this 

February 12tii. — Rev. Mr. St. John's Lecture on Rhetoric. 

Section 1st, treated on rhetorical subjects — such as are neither 
demonstratively certain nor morally impossible, but contingent. 
Contingent subjects were distinguished, either as beyond human 
controul or partly depending on human will and exertions, and 
partly on an unforeseen combination of circumstances. Reasons 
were given why the former kind of contingent subjects are exclu- 
ded from Rhetoric. The Lecturer illustrated and explained the 
subdistinction of contingent subjects, in relation to past, present, 
and future time. From which subdistinction were deduced three 
kinds of hearers; the judicial judge, the member of a popular 
assembly, and the spectator or listener. From the kinds of 
hearers moreover were deduced three kinds of oration; the judic- 
ial, the deliberative, and the laudatory or demonstrative. The 
business and end of the judicial, deliberative and demonstrative 
orator were illustrated and explained. 

Section 2nd, treated on persuasives peculiar to demonstrative 
speeches, and the origin of the term demonstrative — as well as its 
equivocal sense and improper use. The definition of a demon- 
strative speech was given, and this definition was considered. 
ISt. With reference to the subject matter, its twofold arrangement 
— the historical method and the logical : the historical and logical 
methods were explained and illustrated. 2nd. With reference to 
the argument. The general question and the special, were dis- 
tinguished, explained and illustrated. 1st. On Virtue, 2nd. On . 
Actions. Elements or sources of argument on each question 
were explained and illustrated. 

February 19th. — The Rev. Dr. Jacob Lectured on Education. 


Since our last observations on the performances of the Plymouth 
company were published, several novelties have been brought 
forward ; but we regret very much to say, that the support which 
they met with on the part of the public was not a tithe of what 
they deserved — whether we regard the intrinsic merit of the 
pieces or the exertions of the actors. 

" Secret Service," a two act piece, by (we believe) Planche, 
gives some insight into the means adopted by Napoleon, during 
his consulate, of acquiring a secret knowledge of every thing 
passing around him. Fouch^ his minister of Police, and numer- 
ous subsidiary spies, were, as is pretty well known, the instru- 
ments. The interest of this drama depends upon the circumstance 
of an old Cur^ bein;? engaged to act as a spy and actually doing 
so — through the diplomatic skill of f ouche's secretary — without 
being at all aware of the service he is engaged in. The Cure has 
passed his life far from Metropolitan scheming; — he is ignorant 
of the world, and full of simplicity, benevolent in thought^ and 
much attached to good feeding, and true religion. The incidents 
which are brought about by the singular situation of this pious 
priest, are highly interesting as well as amusing. The character 
was supported by Wilton, who did not perform badly. 

IJield, as Fouch6, entered well into the spirit of his part, and 
was highly successful : Horsman was not less so as his Secretary, 
the character suited him exactly. 

It is not in the power of a Provincial Manager to engage a 
company so numerous that each actor may choose his parts, and 
appear in none which he knows to be unfitted for him. Mr. 
Horsman has much ability in a certain range of characters — in 
some he is perfectly natural and just; but from being obliged, 
by a necessity which cannot be avoided, to sustain parts for which 
he is totally unfit, and in which he knows he must fail : a 
prejudice is very often formed against him, which honest criticism 
ought to deprecate. 

In addition tg its innate interest, "Secret Service'* derives 
another attraction from its scenic arrangement, which is on a plan 
new to the Plymouth theatre, and has a very striking effect. 

" Rural Felicity," that is to say, rural infelicity, is a clever 
affair of little Buckstone's. It is a most laughable developement 
of the effects of village scandal; all the rurals seem to endure a 
transmigration of Paul Pry's soul into their several bosoms, and 
to do tlieir utmost in making themselves, and all around them 
ludicrously miserable. The piece is a school for scandal, on a 
small scale. 

All the performers actt'd with spirit, and were greeted with 
much applause. 

** Married Life," is the gem of the new attractions. It can 
hardly be designated by the title of a comedy ; but we mistake 


much if the mass of play goers would not prefer it to the best 
comedy which could be presented to them. It is full of good 
natured satire, rich, stirring mirth, and really glorious fun. It 
abounds with incident, on no occasion flags, but keeps up ex- 
citement to the last, and presents some highly amusing situations. 
It cannot but become a favorite on the first night, wherever it is 

We had but one regret, whilst witnessing " Married Life," 
namely, that it never had been seen by our late good humoured 
correspondent, the author of *' Bachelor's Blessedness," who, to 
our great grief, gave up the ghost about six weeks since, in con- 
sequence of some disorder of the heart. 

The dramatis personae consist of five couple, who contrive to 
find very substantial reasons for quarrelling and ultimately 
separating — the ladies with a determination never to see their 
lords more, and the gentlemen with a resolution to forswear all 
manner of wedded bliss. We are next introduced to the husbands, 
who are, by various causes, brought together, doing the dismal, 
and regretting the loss of their wives, in very lamentable, long 
measure. The ladies are next seen, not a whit more at ease than 
their consorts, for each one declares that she is the most miserable, 
of the feminine gender, in existence. Last scene of all comes a 
reconciliation — for though married they are still lovers and, 
according to Terence, 

" Amantium iren?, &c. &c." 

One of the worse halves acts as fugleman — his " Ready, present, 
fire ! " brings into union ten several pair of most affectionate lips, 
which seal the compact. The characters were well supported. 

On Friday, the 6th, ult., the house was patronised by Lord 
Boringdon, and was tolerably attended. 

On Tuesday, 10th, ult., the perforrtiances were under the 
countenence of Capt. Superintendant Ross, C. B., but owing 
probably to the state of the weather, there was a very thin atten- 
dance. The pieces selected were Sheridan's Operatic Comedy, 
The Duenna, and Ferfection. Mr. Hield took the part of Don 
Ferdinand, Mr. Vivashthat of Isaac Mendoza, and Mrs. Penson 
officiated as Duenna, which was decidedly the best sustained 
character during the performance. Miss Jarman as Clara, in 
*' The Duenna," and as Kate O'Brien, in "■ Perfection," acquitted 
herself most creditably; it would be superfluous for us to ex- 
patiate on this lady's musical talents ; it must be apparent to all 
who hear her, whether judges or not, that her rich mellow voice, 
delicate and finished style, and brilliant execution, are equal, if not 
superior to those of any provincial actress who has visited this town. 
She gave, with admirable effect, a great number of songs, some 
of which were encored; but, notwithstanding the fatigue necess- 
arily attendant on so much exertion, there was not even the 
slightest appearance of exliaustion. In addition to this, her 
talent as'an actress renders her a most efficient member of a corps 


dramatique. We were likewise much pleased with Miss 
Hempel's Louisa, in " The Duenna," which she sustained with 
great spirit and vivacity. We have witnessed, with much 
satisfaction, the improvement which Miss Hempel has made 
since her first appearance, both in singing and acting; and 
we recommend her, by all means, to persevere in that very laud- 
able spirit, which must doubtlessly raise her in her profession, 
and in the good opinion of all who know her. 

Friday the 13th. — The Stranger and Perfection. The former 
celebrated drama is known to depend on two characters. The 
Stranger, and Mrs. Haller; both of which are admitted to be 
highly arduous, Mr. Hield personated the former, and Miss 
Mason the latter. They gave much satisfaction to the auditors, 
as was manifested by frequent applause. In the course of the 
piece Miss Jarman sang " I have a silent sorrow here," in an 
exquisitely tender and gracefully plaintive style. Mr. Horsman's 
Baron Steinfort was much better than we had expected. 

Monday, March 16th. — Sheridan Knowles' celebrated tragedy, 
Virginlus, with the romantic drama, Robinson Crusoe. Mr. 
Hield's \ irginius was an energetic and spirited performance; he 
was most successful in the early part of the prison scene, with 
Appius Claudius. Miss Mason's Virghn'a merited the highest 
commendation — were we to point out one portion of her enact- 
ment more to be praised than the rest, it would be the scene with 
Virginius, after his return from the camp, in the house of Numi- 
torius. " Robinson Crusoe" is a rattling affair, with plenty of 
wild Indians and musket firing, clap-trap and rum drinking, &c. 
&c. The scenery and machinery were prepared expressly for the 
occasion; both were good . Mr. Norman*s Nipcheese was the 
best sustained character in the piece. Nipcheese is a boozing, 
bottle-valiant ship-steward, amazingly truculent when no danger 
is at hand, but labouring under a strong aversion to the smell of 
gunpowder. Mr. Fuller, as Friday, Mr. Mason, as Friday's 
father, Mr. Horsman, as a mutineer, and Mr. Vivash, as an honest 
sailor, were severally entitled to great credit. 

March 17th. — Married Life, A day after the Wedding, and 
High Life Below Stairs. This evening's performances were 
under the patronage of the Mayor and Commonalty ; and we are 
glad to state that the boxes were not only fashionably, but also 
well filled. 

Mr. Ilield sustained the character of Col. Freelove, in the 
interlude, we think that he rather overacted the part in some 
points, and appeared deficient in ease in others. Miss Mason 
was verv respectable as Lady Elizabeth Freelove. The little 
Vivash had to do was done with his usual broad humour, which 
told well among the gods. 

Mr. Hield's Lord Duke, in the farce, was performed much 
better than the character he personated in the interlude. Mr. 
Vivash, as Philij), and Mr. Norman, as Tom, were both excellent. 

7 APR as 

.. roi;K.n.).N. 



Lady Bab and Lady Charlotte received justice at the hands of 
Mesdames Ilorsman and Stamford : they also dressed the cha- 
racters very appropriately. Miss Jarman, as Kitty, sang " Nice 
young maidens," '* Come here fellow servants," and " Au^ay, 
away, to the mountain's brow " with her usual feeling and taste. 
The chorus and mock quadrille proved a source of much merri- 
ment to the audience. 



"I RECOLLECT vcry well," said Tom, "for it was one day when 
I was n't very swipey, that somebody told me a very curous 
story about a king in old times, I think it was a king of the 
Scilly Islands, who, somehow or other, got up into Heaven ; and 
the gods and goddesses were very good to him, and gave him 
plenty of beer and tobacco, and a new suit of clothes, and every 
thing else that he wanted. Well, sir, this king had murdered 
somebody in the world before he got into Heaven, and he was 
so pleased with the gods and goddesses, and himself, that he 
wrote in a book belonging to one of them — 

* Adventures are to the adventurous.' 

Now this is very true, sir, for nobody has been more adventurous 
than myself and nobody has had more adventures in one particular 

'^ixty-one years since, Tom, for the first time, found himself 
" wide awake" to the world, in the village of Rattery, about two 
miles from Totnes ; he was one of four brothers. His father was 
an agricultural labourer, and his mother earned an honest penny 
by thinning turnip crops, weeding, gleaning, (or, in the vernacular, 
ear-picking) digging potatoes, or any other light work suited to 
her sex and constitution. Before Tom was eight years old he 
had been initiated in the mysteries of using a mattock, wielding a 
spade, pig-feeding, and cow-driving; indeed he became so pro- 
ficient in these several crafts, that at the age of seven years and 
a half, he was apprenticed to a farmer, one Master Ford, of South 
Brent parish. 

There Tom remained till he had attained his eighteenth year, 
he became lusty and handsome: the barley bread was unadulter- 
ated with the chalk, ground bones, alum, bad potatoes, and 
sawdust which find their way into town made loaves: the pigs 
were not fed with the offal of butcher's slaughter houses, so that 
the pork on which Tom luxuriated was rich, juicy, and so fiit 
that it slipped down his throat without needing the process of 
VOL. v.~1835. z 


mastication. No wonder then that Tom became a very proper 
man: all the girls in the village admired his comely proportions 
— they absolutely were all in love with him, but he was reserved 
and mode«t, never going beyond a Platonic kiss, even with the 
prettiest. In this state of affairs Tom saw he must marry one to 
save himself from the importunities of the rest, or else bid good 
bye to the village. Other circumstances induced him to adopt 
the latter plan. .Firstly, he did not want a wife; secondly, he 
had become tired of farms and farming implements, barley bread 
and unadulterated bacon : and, lastly, by some singular chance, 
he had an opportunity of smelling gunpowder. 

Tom would be a soldier ! 

Not one of the common sort, though; his native pride would 
not brook such a thing — lie would either be a dragoon or a marine. 
"I 'II toss up for it,". says, Tom. "Heads, a marine; tails, a 
dragoon. Heads! ' heads came uppermost, and Tom came to 
Plymouth, where he was made a Royal Marine, placed under 
the tuition of a drill sergeant, and introduced to Stonehouse bar- 
racks. Tom's master in the mean time not knowing the rationale 
of these proceedings, came to Plymouth, and demanded his run- 
away apprentice. So good a man, so fit a hero for his Majesty's 
service, was not to be parted with so easily. Tom was sent on 
board the CuUoden, then lying in Cawsand Bay, and Master 
Ford returned unsuccessfully to South Brent. 

Whilst practising the great gun exercise, in hopes of soon 
getting a whack at the French, Tom was seized with the small 
pox, and was sent to the Royal Naval Hospital : here, in spite 
of the disease and the doctors, Tom soon got well, and in a very 
short period found himself standing out to sea, as sentry, on the 
forecastle of the Am[)hion frigate ; in this vessel he saw something 
of the world, had some jollifications with the lasses of Milford, 
drank whisky at Cork, eat ripe lemons at Madeira, and caught 
capelings on the shores of Newfoundland : time past so pleasantly 
and so rapidly that he was astonished to find himself again in 
barracks at Stonehouse. 

Tom's next cruise was in the Hussar frigate, which was 
wrecked on the coast of France: this circumstance proved the 
source of all his troubles: he was cast on shore, senseless, from 
a wound which he had received in the head either by being 
driven violently against a rock or some part of the vessel after 
she had struck. Since that time Tom has, occasionally, shown 
symptoms of some disease in his upper works. 

Having remained six months in a French prison near Brest, 
growing thin on garlic and soup maigre, he was released in an 
exchajit;e of prisoners, returned to Plymouth and was again estab- 
lished at the Stonehouse barracks. 

He was short'y d raited to the Saturn,' 74 guns, and cruised for 
two years in the channel. During these two years, he was not 
unfrequently very erratic in his conduct : sometimes so much so 


as to require the aid of double irons to tranquillize him. He was 
in consequence sent to the Naval Plospital, and thence to the 
Hoxton Madhouse, London, where he remained under medical 
treatment for six weeks ; and was then sent to Chatham for chano^e 
of air, and to join the division of marines stationed at that place. 
From Chatham he was marched to his old quarters in Stonehouse, 
and subsequently he was sent on board the Windsor Castle, then 
lying in Hamoaze. Poor Tom exhibited so many marks of 
flightiness, and committed so many vagaries, during his next 
cruise, that, as soon as the ship reached shore, he was discharged 

Tom bears no particular affection to the Lords of the Admiralty, 
for not granting him a pension : he considers himself as much 
entitled to one, on the score of the wound which he received by 
shipwreck, as he would have been, had he lost a limb in action. 
For a time Tom was completely on his beam ends ; at length 
he plucked up his courage, and visited the home of his fathers. 
On arriving at Rattery, he found all the admirers of his not yet 
obliterated charms, comfortably married ; and, though they might 
have something to do in the way of chronicling small beer, it is 
quite certain that they did not suckle fools; their numerous 
offspring being shrewd, sharp-witted, and plump. 

Tom lived at Rattery and other places as an agricultural 
labourer for ten years; at the end of which period he set out for 
Plymouth, on a matrimonial speculation; for he found that 
bachelor's blessedness did not exactly suit his constitution. 
After many hair breadth escapes in this expedition, he at length 
met with a damsel after his own heart ; who by a singular coin- 
cidence was casting about for a husband, as earnestly as Tom 
was for a wife: during two long weeks the happy pair spoke 
many soft words to each other, according to the wont of lovers. 
On the first day of the third week, they were united in the bonds 
of matrimony. 

Tom being a prudent man, and a good natured fellow withal, 
(except on such occasions as he puts an enemy into his mouth, 
to steal away his brains, or as he himself says, gets swipey) very 
wisely considered that he ought to provide himself with the ways 
and means to support any family which might result from his 
marriage: he scraped an acquaintance with divers bricklayers, 
who with much kindness of heart appointed him as their secretary; 
the duties of his office being to sift lime, make mortar, and carry 
bricks to whatever elevation might be needed. Lime dust, how- 
ever, proved hurtful to Tom's eyes — so he tendered the resigna- 
tion of his secretaryship, which the bricklayers were most 
graciously pleased to accept. 

Tom's next step was to enlist in that heroic and honorable 
corps the old Plymouth Watch. His courage being always of an 
indomitable kind, many and many a drunken and disorderly nigiit- 
brawler was by its means conveyed to the watch house ; and Tom 


was likely to become a shining ornament to the profession, but in 
a luckless hour he was discharged. 

About this period of Tom's career, Billy Cobbelt was blazing 
away in all directions, through the medium of his Political Re- 
gister. Public attention was roused by his fulminations, and 
Tom thought it would be no bad plan to turn wandering pam- 
phlet seller. He strolled about the country, retailing the liegister 
and other publications of a similar stamp : small profits but 
quick returns seemed to be putting him in the way of making a 
fortune. He had, however, calculated without his host, for wjien 
at Truro, the authorities gave him to understand that he had 
been operating as an unlicensed hawker; the reward of which 
was imprisonment in Bodmin jail for three months. 

On his liberation, Tom felt his courage not a whit abated; 
pamphlets he would sell, be the consequences what they might. 
He returned to Plymouth, and, in the course of his career, sold 
certain papers which reflected in some manner on General Brown, 
then residing in the Plymouth Citadel : he was tried for selling 
a libellous publication, and was provided with a lodging in Exeter 
jail for six months. 

Once more free, Tom resumed his favorite occupation, of 
hawking pamphlets; and, in the course of his peregrinations, 
found the way to Penryn. Certain political papers which he had 
disposed of there, again brought him under the cognizance of 
the law : he was convicted of selling libellous publications, and 
was sentenced to eight months imprisonment in Bodmin jail. 
During his confinement here, he was provided with handcuffs 
and fetters, which were applied with the view of giving weight 
and steadiness to his character. 

Released for the third time. — "Adventures are to the adven- 
turous," thought Tom. He provided himself with anew stock 
of pamphlets, and strolled about the country, dispensing politics 
to the country people : he was, however, brougiit up, all standing, 
at Yealmpton, conducted to Devonport, tried for hawking without 
a licence, convicted, and sent to Exeter jail for three months. 

Being freed once more, Tom piirchased a licence, and again 
appeared on the stage as an itinerant bookseller : but his evil genius 
still pursued him; he soon found himself in one of the dungeons 
of the Plymouth Guildhall, where he remained for six weeks. 

Out again. Still dabbling in pamphlets and politics; but 
safely — under the protection of a licence. When the time of this 
licence had expired, Tom's exchequer did not posses funds, 
sufficiently ample, to purchase a new one; and his character had 
become so marked, that he found it no easy matter to procure 
one, even when he had mustered a sufficient sum for the purpose, 
which he did a few days afterwards. At length, he obtained the 
needful document at Honiton. Between the expiration of his 
old licence, and the procuration of a new one, he had sold in 
Plymouth, an account of the sentences pronounced on suc!i 


prisoners as had been tried at a recent assize. For this he was 
tried at Devon port, and sentenced to three months grinding in 
the Tread Mill. 

Tom next appeared on the stage of life as an itinerant preacher, 
at Kingsbridge; self ordained and self endowed for the purpose. 
As he was never able to collect a congregation sufficiently 
numerous to afford him the means of building a chapel ; and as 
he could not persuade any other preacher to lend his place of 
» worship, pro tempore; he was fain to hold forth in the highways 
and hedges. Tom states that, at such times, his plan of service 
was a hymn, a prayer, a sermon, and a hymn in conclusion. If 
the congregation appeared very devout, he usually paused in the 
middle of his sermon, and sent round his hat for a collection. 
If he perceived no symptoms of devotion, he concluded the 
service abruptly, and went to some other place. It happened 
one day that his congregation was much more numerous than 
usual; (a fair held the day before had brought an influx of 
visitors) the greatest attention was paid to Tom's discourse, and 
the field in which he was sermonizing was crowded — he sent 
round his hat as usual, and found his zeal becoming highly ani- 
mated, as he perceived a vast number of half-pence dropped 
into it: much to his astonishment when the hat was handed to 
him, it contained but two pence half-penny — the remainder 
having escaped through a hole in the crown, which had been 
inflicted in a scuffle, on the preceding night, while Tom and the 
keeper of a wild beast show were getting drunk. 

Tom's evil stars were always in the ascendant : he appeared 
before his congregation drunk on three Sundays in succession, 
and, instead of giving his auditors a sermon, narrated his experi- 
ence in Bodmin and Exeter jails. This was a finishing stroke 
for the preacher, he never could draw an assembly of hearers 
together afterwards, and, in consequence, returned to his former 
trade. Being quite out of cash, Tom contrived to get relief from 
three different parishes, Ilarburton, Holberton, and Plymouth, 
by representing himself as a parishioner : he tried to do the same 
at West Allington, but the guardians of the poor were too clever 
for him. He had however a sufficient sum to procure some 
pamphlets, for selling one of which, containing a libel, he was 
again sent to Exeter jail for eleven months. In a fortnight after 
his release, Tom contrived to get sent back again for hawking 
without a licence. The same tiling occurred twice afterwards ; 
for nothing could persuade Tom, that it was wrong to sell 
without a licence, when he could not afford to purchase one. 

After his sixth imprisonment in Exeter jail, Tom bid good 
bye to Plymouth for a time, hoping to meet with better luck in 
other places. lie was, nevertheless, doomed to disappointment, 
for, during his peregrination, he found lodging within prison walls 
at Falmouth, Penryn, Lostwithiel, Totnes, Barnstaple, and 


Tavistock; — all for the old offences of selling libels, or acting as 
an unlicensed hawker. 

Tom asserts, with much apparent satisfaction, that though he 
has been in prison twenty-two times, he was never confined for 
the commission of any crime. No logic can persuade him that 
his offences are crimes. 

In addition to his regular imprisonments, Tom has been con- 
fined very frequently in the dungeons of the Plymouth Guildhall, 
for being drunk and disorderly in the streets : he however thinks 
very stoically of such trifles, though he protests in strong terms 
against the treatment of such wights as are under the influence of 
John Barleycorn, who (according to Tom's account) are provided 
with mucli worse accommodation for the night, than that which 
is granted to felons. 

To add to Tom's adventures, he became a widower about five 
years since ; and, shortly after that, he was knocked down and 
robbed, on the Plympton road, between the " Rising Sun," and 
the " Crabtree Inn ;" he made a gallant defence, on this occasion, 
and was severely beaten for his heroism. The culprits were cap- 
tured, committed to Exeter jail, tried, and acquitted. 

The following may be considered as a good trait in Tom's 
character. Shortly after he had married, a child was placed with 
his wife to be nursed, for which a payment of five shillings per 
week was promised. The child was subsequently abandoned, 
and left on his hands : instead of taking it to the overseers of the 
poor, or getting rid of it in any oltjer way, Tom fostered the child 
as his own, and many who have seen him carrying the little girl 
about in his arms, have accorded to him the honors of paternity, 
which he never enjoyed. He has ever since been as a father to 
the girl, she is now married, and has two children; she lives in 
the same house with him, in Palace Court. 

Tom fully admits the justice of his various commitments, 
(though he calls in question the Ien2;th of some of his imprison- 
ments) except one, an assault which he was charged with having 
conm]iUed, near Plymstock ; in this affair he solemnly avers that 
he was the aggrieved party, though he could not make it appear 
so to the magistrates, who were about to give him another throe 
months at the Tread Mill; this punishment was however com- 
muted for a fine, which, with costs, amounted to fourteen shil- 
lings; for this sum Tom pawned his watch, and has not since 
been able to recover it. 

At present Tom gains a livelihood by selling blacking, which 
he not only disposes of in the town, but carries, on stilted days, 
to the neighbouring hamlets and villages. 

The following may be taken as tolerably fair samples of the 
non-libellous dispensations of our hero, in contradistinction to 
those of the " Society for the Diflfusion of Useful Knowledge." 




"To the Right Honorable Robert Peel, Secretary of State for the Home 


" SIR. — Every body speaks well of you, and what every body says must 

be true ; therefore, I make no doubt but you will be so good as to forward 

my letter to the King, and assist me all you can — so 1 beg you will lose no 

time in doing it, and let me know as soon as his Majesty has considered of it. 

Direct for me at No. 5, Middle Lane, Plymouth, inclosing my discharge. 

I am respectfully, your humble Servant, 


" To King George the Fourth, my beloved Sovereign.'* 

" SIRE. — I hope your Majesty will allow me to petition your humanity, 
as I observe you have graciously been pleased to help the Spitalfields' Weavers 
in their distresses, and why not help an old and faithful subject; one who has 
served your late Father both with his person and his purse — about 30 years 
ago, when I was serving as a Marine on board the Saturn, 74, Captain Tim- 
mings (I believe he is a Colonel now, at Portsmouth) who was Captain of the 
Marines, came and told us that George the Third, your Father was in great 
distress for money to carry on the war, and asked what we would give to 
help him— I lemember I gave 7s. to help him, when he wanted it, and I 
hope you will think of me, now 1 am past labour, and in the greatest of dis- 
tress. Captain Timmings said then, ' Hynes, you sha' n't lose any thing for 
your loyalty ; ' but after that I was shipwrecked, and then I got a cracked 
sktdl, was thrown into French prison, and, when I came home, I was sent to 
Hoxton Mad-house, in London ; and after that I was discharged from your 
father's service for a mad-man, and the children to this day call me Mad Tom : 
now I never got any thing for my good will — I have sent the certificate of my 
discharge, and^you '11 see that what I say is true, and Captain Timmings can 
testify about the 7s., if you ask him. Now I ought to let your Majesty know 
that the Magistrates here at Plymouth have sent me 20 times to jail, some- 
times for a month, sometimes for three months, because I sell blacking without 
a licence, not for being a thief, thank God. I have paid your Majesty, first 
and last, £32. for licences. Now this is the way poor old Tom rubs along, 
and, as I have been a good friend to your father and you, and helped all I 
could, and would again, so I hope you will try, and I dare say if you was 
only to ask the Gentlemen who give the Marines their pension, they would do 
it for you, and order me something to live upon, for I am getting old, and I 
dare say sha' n't live long to be a burden to you. 

Hoping your Majesty will be kind enough to excuse the liberty I have 
taken, because I thought to go to the head of the well at once — 

I remain your Majesty's . 

most loyal and faithful subject, 

No. 5, Middle Lane, Plymouth." 


Mr. Peel's answer. 

" Whitehall, 12th. March, 1827. 

" SIR. — I am directed by Mr. Secretary Peel, to acknowledge the receipt 
of your Letter, with its enclosure (herewith returned), and to acquaint you that 
he cannot lay before the King a Letter in the form which you have adopted. 
1 am Sir, your most obedient humble Servant, 

Mr. Thomas Hynes, Middle Lane, Plymouth." 

Copy of the Discharge. 

"These are to certify (as it appears by the Divisional Books) that Thomas 
Hynes, served in the Plymouth Division of Marines, honest and faithful, from 
the 5th. February, 1793, to the 21st. February, 1800, when he was discharged, 
being deranged in mind. 



" The said Thomas Hynes, at his enlistment, was aged 16 years, 5 feet 4 
inches high, light brown hair, fresh complexion, hazlc eyes, a native of Rattery, 
in Devonshire, by trade a labourer. 

" Given under my hand, at the Royal Marine Barracks, Plymouth, April 
20th., 1810." 


Lieut, and Adjt." 


** To his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury." 

**The Petition of THOMAS HYNES, now residing in Wright's CohtI, 

Catte Street, Plymouth." 

" SHEWETH,— That your petitioner is a very poor man indeed, of the 
great age of W years ; and having no friend on earth but himself and wife, it 
induces him to apply to your Grace, as one of the king's friends, hoping you 
will lay this before His Majesty, and use your interest to procure a pension 
for me, or any situation in your Grace's or His Majesty's gift, that my shining 
abilities, and my noble and glorious character, may qualify me for. 

"That 1 have gloriously fought and suffered, but without any honour or 
profit to myself, (to my praise be it spoken) for his late majesty, our royal 
King's father, upwards of seven years, and for my disinterested and praise- 
worthy conduct, was discharged for being deranged in mind ; and I hope your 
grace will agree with me, that it was no wonder after being shipwrecked, 
then I got a cracked skull, and a situation as a prisoner of war, in a French 
prison, and after I came home, I made interest to get into Hoxtou Madhouse, 
near London, and if all that I have stated above (and I assure your grace 
upon the honor of a crazy man, that I have not exaggerated) is it not enough 
to make a man crazv, I hope you will say so at once. But stand my friend 
only this once, and I will pray for you as long as yon live, and after you are 
dead too; only first obtain my request, and then I will tell you all about it; 
but as I SHid before, after I came home, and out of the Mad-house, I was 
discharged for a mad man, and I believe nobody disputes about it but myself 
and the doctor, who says, " that I am downright staring, stark, roaring mad," 
and I in return tell him that it is himself who is mad and that be is a fool for 
not know'ing better ; and, as we cannot agree on this point, I wish you to 
judge between us ; but 1 hope that you will hold on my side, for if you do not, 
your judgment, in my grand ideas and opinion, will not be worth a straw; — 
but get me a pension, or a good, snug, warm, comfortable berth of a situation, 
of £'2,Q00. or £3,000. per year, and I will proclaim your Grace to the whole 
world, as the wisest man on the face of the globe. 

" Your Grace knows, by this time, how 1 stand with the world, and how 
that a man's will is of no use until he be dead, but my good will has been of 
service, while 1 am yet alive. First, in serving my king and country, then in 
undergoing so many sntterings, and almost last, though not least, is my goml 
WILL, in having been in Exeter jail about twenty dirterent limes, not for 
being a tliief, but for hawking my best, shining, Japan blacking, without a 
licence; and, lastly, I adopted a little girl, who had no parents, as a daughter ; 
^ and one time, when I was in jail, the parish officers took the child from my 
wife, and bound her apprentice to a brute of a farmer, in the country, where 
she was compelled to work hard, fare hard, lie hard, and all but go naked ; 
upon my learning and understanding the usage she received, I had her hard 
hearted master J)eforc the Magistrates, who cancelled her indentures, and I 
took home my darling adopted child once more. 

" Now if my (good) will has not been of service in my life time, say so ; — 
but, only get me a good pension, or some situation — I think that of Master 
General of the Ordnance, First Lord of the Treasury, or of the Admiralty, or 
General of Marines, would make myself and family quite comfortable for life. 
If you cannot assist me, yon can show to some of your friends, who may 
perhaps lend me one of their good ortices, to do something for me. As for my 

character, y»)u may, if you please, enquire of the of ; or else of 

. Hoping you will comply with my request, your petitioner, as, 

in duty bound, will ever pr;:y. 

(Signed,) THOMAS HYNES." 





PLYMOUTH, MAY 1st, 1835. 

No. 29.] Price Sixpence. [Vol. V. 


The Bridge, here delineated, was built in the year 
1753, at the expense of the county; and is now 
about to be taken down and re-erected, being ill- 
adapted to the increased number of carriages and 
horses which now pass over it, and especially to the 
degree of velocity with which our mail and other 
coaches now travel. Its width is only ten feet, and 
its position, at a right angle across the river, renders 
it peculiarly incommodious, not to say dangerous. 
It has been absurdly enough, continued to be called 
the New Bridge, in contradistinction to the older 
bridge across the Plym, higher up on that river, and 
called Plym Bridge. Those who ought to have 
given it a name, neglected to do so, but it is hoped 
that a name will be now given ; though it must be 
acknowledged that the bridges in its vicinity have 
superseded the more obvious names of Plym and 
Plympton. This name has been sometimes con- 
founded with Long Bridge, which is properly appli- 
cable only, to the raised road or bridge over the 
marshes ; extending from the bridge over the stream 
that flows by the side of Marsh House to New 
Bridge. Before the turnpike road was constructed 
here in 1758, there was merely a beaten track lead- 
ing across these marshes (subject therefore to inun- 
dation, and other impediments) communicating on 
one side with the road leading by Leigham Gate to 
Knackersknowle Village, and on the other with 

VOL. V. 1835. A A 


Plymptoh, by a ford across the river, and thence 
by a narrow lane to Plympton, through the Tory 
(then running across a lane called Lincotta Lane), 
and thence through Underwood to that town. In 
1758 the wants of the increased population required 
better accommodation, and an act of parliament was 
applied for to constitute the gentlemen of the 
country, and adjacent towns, a body of trustees; 
authorizing them to collect tolls from all persons 
using the road, and to widen and improve the then 
almost impassable highways. Before this bridge 
was built, the most accustomed road to Plymptdn 
was across the sands from Crabtree to Blaxton, under 
Saltram, and thence by a road to Underwood, 
since thrown into Saltram grounds. But as this 
road was dependant on the state of the tide, it was 
of course extremely inconvenient, and frequently 
dangerous. When therefore a new road to Exeter 
became necessary, great controversy arose whether 
that road should be carried from Crabtree over a 
bridge to be built at Blaxton, thence and through 
Underwood and Plympton, to Ivy Bridge ; or over 
the New Bridge, and through Ridgevvay to Ivy 
Bridge. The dispute was conducted with much 
unnecessary acrimony and ill will, and sadly divided 
the families of the district. At the head of the 
successful party was Sir John Rogers ; at the head 
of the defeated one Mr. Parker, of Saltram. Not 
content with the direful conflicts which turnpike 
meetings afford to provincial oratory ; lampoons and 
squibs were most unsparingly issued, and some 
of them so humorously written, as to have been long 
retained in the memory of the men of that day : but 
Time, the assuager of all conflicts, whether concern- 
ing highways or empires has long since laid the 
heroes of this scene, as well as their lampoons, in 
the silent grave, and smiles in scorn at the ephemeral 
contest. But to us, men with earthly passions, it does 
seem strange, that a line so comparatively level and 
straight as the rejected one, should have given way 


to the adopted circuitous and hilly road. However, 
it is but fair to presume that its supporters were 
deterred from adopting the rejected ones by consi- 
derations of expense, as it is obvious, that two bridges 
and an embankment at Blaxton, must have occasi- 
oned a considerable expenditure, and that such hills 
as occur from Plympton St. Mary Bridge to Chad- 
dlewood Lodge were not then deemed impediments 
to the existing mode of traveUing. The far greater 
part of the yeomanry were furiously opposed to all 
tolls. (Short sighted men ! ! ! are they yet cured ?) 
And therefore the popular side was probably with 
the Rogers' party, as ulterior expence is rarely con- 
sidered in popular meetings, the immediate burthen 
being chiefly adverted to. 

In our next number, it is our design to give an 
engraving of the intended bridge, with some account 
of its dimensions, its probable expense, period of 
completion, and of those who have contracted to 
execute it. 


In the Homeric times, a royal or princely house 
was uniformly situated in the midst of an area, en- 
compassed by a wall, in which the exterior gate un- 
folded its double leaves to admit a chariot and 
horses to pass. 

Opposite to this gateway was the inner door of 
entrance into the hall ; which, occupying the middle 
and main part of the dwelling, served to entertain 
more than a hundred guests : it contained a fire- 
place, answering the purposes of a kitchen : its 
windows, small and on high, let in the light of the sun, 
and emitted the smoke of lamps : its ceihng was the 
upper roof, forming a gallery, whither the inmates 
repaired to sleep ; or refresh themselves in the cool 
of evening. Thus it is said of Elpenor ; who, in a 
fit of ebriety, missing the stair, fell outward from 


^Ihe top of the building. Whether the fire lay in the 

"^centre of the hall, or beneath a chimney in a side- 

* wall, is not easy to ascertain ; yet the more ancient 

and simpler usage renders it likely that the hearth 

was placed mid-way, in the floor. 

This principal apartment was sustained by two 
rows of wooden columns, with niches in which 
spears were fixed ; and having settles hollowed out 
in them towards the fire ; so that those who were 
seated might warm themselves, and at the same 
time recline against the pillars : a twofold con- 
venience, that a single colonnade could not afford, 
in such a spacious room. Pavement there was 
none, — not even a layer of gravel, clay, or sand ; 
and the ground itself was so little planed and hard- 
ened, or consolidated with entire surface, that 
Telemachus with no difficulty, and without incon- 
venience to any, dug in it a hole for a contest at bow 
and arrow. However, not far in the area, near the 
fore-door, there was a level space, perhaps paved 
with stone, fitted for exercise and sport on fiestive 

Adjoining the front door on either side, under the 
extended roof of the house, were vestibules, in 
which the guests passed the night, so that each might 
depart at his pleasure without molesting any of the 
domestics ; and upon these, were open porticos, in 
which the inhabitants, in the day-time, partook of 
the winter sunshine ; or at night, of the summer 

Behind the hall were bed-rooms and more retired 
cells ; in which the father and mother of the family, 
and the more select female attendants reposed : the 
more precious stores were kept there in safety ; and 
baths were heated by fire, apphed from the outside ; 
and above them other chambers and receptacles, in 
which servant-girls, widows, and wives, whose hus- 
bands were absent, slept securely in company with the 
more respectable maidens ; whilst all the men servants 
seem to have passed the night in sheds beyond the 
out-wall of the mansion. 


Separate stairs, by which they might ascend to 
the upper chambers and dormitories, the open por- 
ticos and pleasure gallery, appear to have been 
outwardly adjusted to the walls on both sides ; so 
that any female might descend, and go to the hall- 
door, at will, without being obstructed or observed ; 
but nobody could escape out of it, by the passage 
open towards the lower bedrooms and cells, unless 
by breaking through the inner wall, constructed 
perhaps of wood, or wickerwork, or clay ; by the 
fragments and fissure of which, Melanthius seems 
to have mounted into the closet, where the arms 
w^ere deposited. 

I am not unconscious of the various senses, in 
which the terms of the original Greek have been in- 
terpreted ; but waiving every estimate of their com- 
parative worth, I prefer that acceptation, which 
seems to agree best with their etymology, provided 
it accords with the strain of the sentence. 

The rafters of the roof and gallery seem to have 
been brought forward beyond the walls, on every 
side; and beams protruded and jutting out were up- 
held by other external columns : for Telemachus, 
about to enter into the house, affixes the spear of 
Minerva to the -pillar, in its wonted nook, as if he 
had already entered within the doors ; the rope, by 
which the guilty female servants were to be sus- 
pended, each in her noose, extends round the ceiling 
from a great column. This column must have 
been one of the props by which the roof was sus- 
tained, as is obvious from its name in the original ; 
though Eustathius, and his interpreter, Ernesti,have 
egregiously erred in supposing this pillar to stand 
within rather than without the partition of the edi* 
fice. It is manifest that this dome was a circular 
erection, consisting of stone, between the house and 
the outer wall ; but its use, whether for liberal or 
servile purposes, has not been intimated by the 

Similar in forms perhaps, though larger in dimen- 
sions, were the dormitories, successively neighbouring 


each other and yet distinct, and each under its 
separate roof, appropriated to the Prince's sons and 
sons-in-law, with their respective wives : not other- 
wise than on the River Niger in the interior of Africa, 
the wives of the chiefs at this day possess each her 
own lodge, near the abode of their common husbands. 
Of this kind appears to have been the lodging room 
of Telemachus ; and likewise those sixty-two bed- 
chambers, bordering on one another, constructed 
around the palace of Priam. In it however no 
mention is made of columns ; and since the walls 
were entirely built of rough-hewn or cut stones ; 
pilasters or buttresses of angular blocks, were sub- 
stituted for columns, as well within as without the 

That the separate edifices, whether bedrooms or 
receptacles were covered with pointed roofs is pro- 
bable from their round form ; and also that appar- 
ently the extremities of the house itself were joined 
on both sides to the mid-hall — as in temples hereafter 
to be mentioned, — for that rafters of this sort, even in 
houses of greater size, were sufficiently known to the 
poet and his auditors is plain from the comparison of 
their intersertion to the gmpple of Ajax and Ulysses 
in their wrestling match. In the more private recess 
of the house lay Menelaus and Helena ; but Ulysses 
and Penelope had their bedroom on the outside 
among the range of apartments, as the female atten- 
dant, having prepared their bed, returned to the 
interior of the dwelling. In the porches, between 
the external columns and the walls, horses and beasts 
of burden at their stalls, and carriages, were kept in 
their proper stations ; and where nothing of this kind 
existed, as in Ithaca, there stood hand-mills; at 
which, in the residence of Ulysses, twelve menial 
girls incessantly laboured in grinding corn to feed 
the suitors : they were so near the vestibule, where 
he past the night, that he could hear the voice of one 
of them praying ; and in a spot so open that, leaving 
her mill-work, she looked round to the sky, but at 
the same time was so protected from a shower, that the 


work suffered no hindrance, or disturbance from it. 

It has already been observed that the columns 
were grooved or fluted to retain commodiously and 
securely the spears affixed to them, and the middle 
space lay between the two series of columns, like the 
mainmast in the midst of a ship : in like manner, the 
chimney was placed with the support of pilasters. 

From edifices of this sort, in such rude simplicity, 
constructed for the use and accommodation of men in 
a rustic, uncultivated state, the temples of the gods, 
reared and adorned by their descendants with sump- 
tuous magnificence and exquisite elegance, seem to 
have derived their primary forms ; since they were 
distributed into three compartments, in front, in the 
middle, and in the rear ; as well as the abodes of the 
more ancient princes. Of these sacred structures, the 
middle or nave, which occupied the place of the hall, 
was, in most of the greatest, open to the air ; as the 
hall was covered only with the gallery : whilst in 
both the two extremities were covered with a pentice, 
according to the dictates of utility and the examples 
of ancient fanes, as at Poestum, and in other Doric 
remains. The dormitories and cells of the more 
honorable women, were secured with greater care 
and pains against the severity of the weather, than 
were the seats of the men, only occupied in the day 
time. The distribution of the columns also, both 
within and around the walls, appears to have been 
the same in both instances : the sacred enclosure 
was fenced round in the same manner as the Homeric 

In the temples, the sloping roofs were covered 
with tiles of marble or brick ; while in the royal 
house of olden times both roofs and galleries were 
only planked or boarded : and the various lodges, 
placed outside, were thatched with reed or straw — 
for, in their ignorance of art, neither lime for mortar 
nor, burnt bricks were known : but it was always 
easy and at hand to seam the edges of the boards 
with a mixture of resin and sand ; and to fill and 
stop up their chinks and interstices. 


Taking these circumstances into consideration, we 
may justly conclude that the ancient Greeks derived 
the elegances as well as the rudiments of art from 
experience and the method of usefulness ; and that 
they neither learned nor borrowed any invention of 
moment from the Egyptians, or Phoenicians, or any 
other foreign nation. The houses of mankind were 
adapted to the exigencies and usages of life, the ad- 
vantages of situations, and temperature of climate ; 
and, after their likeness, the sacred fanes were erected, 
only of firmer structure, of more stable materials, and 
ampler scope : all their parts being enlarged, and 
what were originally of wood, then constructed of 
rock — yet the plan and antique disposition of the 
work, as transferred to sacred from profane, were 
religiously retained. 

The columns themselves differed in magnitude and 
substance only ; while the more ancient, which were 
each of single trunks of trees, and supported only a 
wooden story of light weight, were doubtless more 
slender in proportion to their height, than the mature 
perfection of art would allow any of that order to be ; 
neither did usefulness suffer their altitude to exceed 
the measure of twenty feet, which then set the limit 
to all erections of this nature. In the estimation of 
the present age, they would be accounted more worthy 
the-name of posts than of pillars. 

When wooden beams were to be placed for those 
chapitres of pillars, they were allowed to be not only 
more slender and thin, but also more rare in number, 
and more remote from each other in relative distance ; 
of which form and distribution in the more elegant 
edifices of wood, the use, even during the empire of 
the Caesars, plainly appears from paintings at Her- 
culaneum not to have grown obsolete, and become 
altogether extinct. 

W. E. 



- ' :;co 

Concluded- from page 163. -T^^ 

Milton has attempted to remedy the deficiency of 
actors in his piece, by creating two imaginary beings ; 
— Falconer might have had this in view where he 
introduces his '' Angel of the wind/* 

" And lo ! tremendous o'er the deep he springs, 
Th' inflaming sulphur flashing from his wings ! 
Hark ! his strong voice." 

A less aspiring genius had been content with the 
subhmity of this picture ; not so Falconer, unless he 
make it pathetic also. Telemachus takes the helm 
on account of the pilot being intoxicated, an indul- 
gence natural enough in a native of Cyprus. Arion 
is brought to the wheel by a more affecting incident 
— the helmsman has been struck by lightning. And 
then the delicate glance at the rough master. 
" Touched with compassion gazing on the blind " 

Who has not admired Gray's " Wierd Sisters," 
hurrying to the field of battle ? 

" Each astride her sable steed." 

Falconer has recourse to them to accelerate the 
catastrophe of the poem, 

"' The fatal sisters on the surge before. 
Yoke their infernal horses to the prore." 

In the " Iphigenia sacrificed," Timanthes, aware 
that his art was unequal to cope with the father's 
grief, threw a veil over the face of Agamemnon ; I 
plead the same excuse for passing over the horrors 
of the wreck. One or two incidents connected with 
it, and we proceed to the last point for our consider- 
ation, the sentiments and moral of the piece. 

The poet, in noticing the fate of Palemon, simply 
tells us, that he was one of the first to quit the 
ship on a raft : Shakspeare in his wild drama of the 
Tempest, touches on such a point more fancifully : — • 

VOL. v.— 1835. BR 


" The King's son Ferdinand, 
He was the first that leaped, crying hell is empty 
And all the devils are here." 

In the natural working of that all pervading 
passion — love, at such a season, Falconer meets him 
with actual experience, for his vantage ground : the 
dying youth bids Arion touch lightly on the dire 
scene of the shipwreck to his Anna; but 

" Say that my love inviolably true 
No change no diminution ever knew : 
Lo! her bright image pendant on my neck 
Is all Palemon rescued from the wreck." 

Arion escapes by keeping himself seated on the 
floating mainmast: — turn to where Telemachus is 
found in a similar situation at the close of the sixth 

" We held ourselves firm," says he, "as the sea 
broke over our heads, being fearful, lest the violence 
of the shock might deprive us of our only hope — 
the mast on which we floated." 

You will observe that Falconer calls in the figure 
alliteration to express the wild fury of the surge ; — 

'* Another billow bursts in boundless roar, 
Arion sinks, and Memory views no more — 
But see, emerging from the watery grave, 
Again they float." 

Persius, in his 5th satire, remarks that there is 
nothing like a thirst for wealth to make a man an 
early riser: — Falconer, with a fine moral on this 
universal pursuit, tells us, that Albert, with all his 
virtues, was still but 

" A captive fettered to the oar of Gain." 

It is time to make an end. 

I have essayed in our progress through the main 
action, to point out its scenes of paternal affection, 
of warm but chastened love, of high yet patient re- 
solve under distress, of mutual regard in youth and of 
compassion in a strong mind. The devout turn per- 
ceptible in Falconer's work shall bring my observa- 
tions on it to a close. 

falconer's shipwreck. 203 

There is a fine passage in Milton, where the poet 
catching sympathy from our first parents, joins in 
their evening worship. 

" They adored 
The God who made the moon's resplendent globe 
And starry pole." 

And then the fine transition 

" Thou also madest the night, 
Maker omnipotent, and thou the day." 

Longinus has an instance of this kind out of 
Homer; and Virgil in addressing Hercules adopts a 
similar figure. 

I give this at some length — because in almost 
every devout aspiration in this poem Falconer has, 
I think, as far as the flow of his verse admitted, 
resorted to this manner of transition. One instance 
may suffice. 

Albert, the shipmaster, has been giving all the 
necessary directions their perilous situation called 
for: — 

" Great in distress the master seaman stood." 

And most so where he breaks off to apostrophize 
him, at whose word "the stormy wind ariseth." 

" Oh ! source of life, our refuge and our stay. 
Whose voice the warring elements obey — 
Tis our's on thine unerring laws to trust 
With thee, great Lord, "whatever is, is just." 

204 ' 




Mind wrestles with Mortality ! — Ye view 
Death's fatal shaft its struggling powers subdue ; 
Where Learning's pupil wins the appointed prize. 
Touches the goal — but for the conquest dies ! 
That youthful breast devot»j to noblest aim, 
Hath felt its spirit too intensely flame, 
Wasting the fragile threads of sentient clay, 
*Till life was spent and being breathed away. 

In vain for him the Wreath — though won, its clasp 

Shall bind his temples with an iron grasp, 

And the bright leaves of Delphi's plant o'erpower 

The high expectance of that envied hour — 

Till its great effort weigh the occasion down, 

And the sad sequel mock th€f late renown. 

Think ye, what days of studious toil were passed, 
To wear that garland, sought and found too fast I 
Think ye what nights the zeal of Genius gave, 
To snatch the fame that consecrates its grave ! 
In vain allurement flung her lilies o'er 
The path of bliss, and bade him toil no more; 
In vain with every joyous passion rife. 
Breathed the fresh spring of yet untasted life; 
In solitary haunt he loved alone 
To make the knowledge of the Dead his own, 
And from the pages of the past to glean 
Their learning, precepts, — all that they had been — 
Yet thus unmindful of each lowlier claim, 
Health, pleasure, life, the sacrifice became. 
Pale grew his cheek, save when the hectic flush 
Tinged its worn surface with a treacherous blush; 
And o'er that brow where passion seemed to slight 
Her wonted hues, and play the anchorite, 
Y'^e might in each convulsive throb discern 
The rushing soul which held a course so stern, 
And stayed not — though life's pulses seemed to bear 
Its madding force in agonized despair — 
Conscious whereto they tended, and from whence 
The numbing pause of each o'er-laboured sense, 


Which oft subdued, in momentary power, 

That Martyr Student in his cloistral bower : 

The while his mid-night lamp witli wasted ray 

Burned dim beneath the morning's earliest gray, 

And but expired, when robed in power and light. 

The great Sun scaled his heaven, and blessed tlie height. 

Thus day by day he panted for the prize, 

And prodigal of youth-hood's energies, 

E'en as his frame grew weaker, overbore 

The potent harm that crushed his hearths deep core ; 

Revelling in secret, where the fountain rill 

Of the warm bosom nursed the insidious ill. 

And as its current journeyed, only fed 

That hidden grief, and more its influence spread. 

Sad were the task, might kindred thought explain, 
What glorious phantoms fired the Student's brain ; 
W^hat radiant scenes his starting slumbers knew, 
Revealed in vision to his prophet view : — 
Young — yet resolved e'en youth itself to wreck 
For that impassioned hope, which without check 
Dauntless he so pursued, until ye there 
Witness what all its dreams of greatness were ! 

Such is the meed ! Death's rigid finger lay 

Twined in the garland, eager for his prey, * 

And as the trial of intellect drew near 

Flushed him in hope or palsied o'er with fear : 

Now quick with fever boiled the bosom's flood, 

Now icy doubt repelled the lingering blood ; 

Yet hope was strongest, and for that essay 

Strung every fibre of the obedient clay, 

Ardent the wreath of conquering mind to win, 

And still in triumph, all its fears within ! 

Yes ! Mind was greatest — and that mind o'ercame 
Pain, weakness, doubt, impatient after fame ; 
Yet then too mighty, also breathed aside 
The mastered earth to which it half was tied ; — 
The link long since was loosened, and that hour 
Snapped short its hold with a resistless power ; 
As some fair bark 'mid Ocean's billowy plain 
Hath stemmed the violence of tlie troubled ^ain ; 


Yet in an hour of calm, its haven won, 
Gone down, and perished in the noon-day Sun. 
So did he pass away, who would have found 
Delight in praise and lived in honor's sound ; 
Vain praise ! most empty homage I when as now, 
They bind the night-shade on the Martyr's brow. 

Yet still that fate be hallowed — still revere 

His tomb sublime, and dew it with a tear ! 

For not by thirst of gore he fell, — or bled 

In battle-field with the promiscuous dead — 

Not for the sake of wealth did he invite 

In dangerous climes, Destruction's fevered blight. 

Or to uphold the worthless, idly spend 

His soul's best powers, and court an earlier end. 

But that the stream of knowledge might diffuse 

To thirsty bosoms its celestial dews ; 

That Science, glorious Science, should display 

Her eagle wing, and bask in noon of day ; 

That he, her chosen son, her prophet mind. 

Might be her herald unto human kind, 

And if the crown he wore, to merit due. 

By equal sacrifice deserve it too. 

Peace to the Martyr-Student ! Still, though sere, 
Those leaves shall scutcheon gloriously his bier, 
And every voice that breathes his name, attest 
Sweet sympathy in many a kindred breast; 
Soothing his manes — if perchance there last 
In the freed mind a care for what is past. 
Or that the exalted spirit e'er may find 
One added joy from things it left behind. 


To the Editor of the " South Devon Monthly Museum." 
Should the following observations, on Van Dieman's Land, suit 
the pages of the *^ Museum" you will oblige me by their insertion . 
I have not long returned from this Island; where I resided 
many months; and, during the time I was there, had many 
opportunities of making myself well acquainted with it. 

Many and various are the stories in circulation respecting this 
Island, some extolling it as an " El Dorado," where you can 
pick up gold in the streets ; while others say that it is only fit for 
a penal settlement for those, who, by reason of their offences, are 
obliged to leave their own country, "in medio tu tutissimus 
ibis;" and, I think, by following the middle course, between 
these two extremes, I shall be nearer the truth. I am aware that 
T am liable to bring upon myself the imputation of vanity and 
presumption, by writing on a subject on which so many able and 
interesting works have been published ; but I contend that, from 
the price of these books, there is a bar put against their getting 
into the hands of those who most require them to assist their 
judgment. Therefore, if I am happy enough to set any person 
right in any particular, respecting the propriety of emigration, I 
shall be amply repaid. I shall, in this paper, give a cursory 
description of the Island; its principal towns, government, 
produce, &c.; -and, in the next, I shall treat on the propriety of 
emigrating thither. 

Van Dieman's Land was first discovered by Tasman, a Dutch 
circumnavigator, who gave it the name it now bears, in honor of 
his friend the then Governor of Batavia: it was subsequently 
visited by Captain Cook, and many other navigators, who all 
declared it to be a part of the west continent of New Holland ; 
and Captain Cook states in his " Voyages," that, although he < 
sought for a considerable time, he could find no straits; and 
he gives it as his opinion that none such could exist. What 
could not be discovered by search was at last found out by 
accident; Mr. Bass was driven off from the coast of New Hol- 
land, in a whale boat, and was drifted through these straits, to 
which he gave his name, and thus established beyond all doubt, 
that this was an Island. It extends from 40 degrees, 30 minutes, 
South Latitude, to 43 degrees, 36 minutes. South Latitude ; and 
from 144 degrees, 40 minutes, East Longitude, to 148 degrees, 
East Longitude. -- 

208 VAN dieman's land. 

This Island is upon the whole, mountainous and thickly wooded ; 
it contains a great many rivers, but none of them are of any magni- 
tude excepting the Dorwent and the Tamar. On the former Hobart 
Town is built, and on the latter Launceston ; both these rivers 
are navigable for the largest vessels for many miles. The climate 
is mild, being, in summer, but little warmer than in England ; 
whilst the winter is distinguished by the quantity of rain which 
falls, rather than by the cold . What strikes the new settler with 
surprise is the coldness of the summer nights; for, after the very 
warmest days, you will have nights succeed them, in which you 
will be glad to have a blanket or two wrapped round you when 
you go to bed, and yet I have slept many nights in the bush, 
with nothing but a kangaroo rug round me, without suffering the 
least inconvenience from it. From the mildness of the climate, 
it is well calculated for the breeding of sheep, which is there 
carried to a great extent: I know two gentlemen there, who 
had each above 30,000 sheep ; and, considering the fineness of 
the wool, and the prices obtainable for it in England, wool is a 
source of great wealth to the settlers. The grazing of cattle is also 
carried to a great extent ; but the runs (as the pastures are called) 
are in general fi\r in the interior. The cattle are attended to by 
stock keepers, who live in huts built on the runs ; it is their duty 
to collect them occasionally, and, if necessary, to take them to 
the towns for sale. In consequence of the want of barriers to 
their rambling, the cattle of one herd often stray into another; 
but, to prevent confusion, every proprietor of cattle puts his 
brand upon them, and it is felony to deface that brand or sub- 
stitute anotlier. Most of the men who look af\er the cattle are 
prisoners, and are in general a most desperate set of people; for, 
being quite removed from the surveillance of the authorities, they 
are at liberty to indulge all the grossest passions, without being 
detected ; and it is by the means of these people that the convicts, 
who run away and become bushrangers, are concealed and fed, 
while tlicy in return receive and dispose of their ill gotten booty. 

The government of \^an Dieman's Land, is vested in the 
hands of the Lieutenant CJovernor, Colonel Arthur, who has the 
power of respiting prisoners from death, until the decision of the 
home government be known. There is also a colonial legislature 
or parliament ; the members of which are chosen by the Gover- 
nor (subject to the approval of the King), from the most respect- 
able and influential of the settlers. They have the power of 
passing acts for.the regulation of the- colonies ; founded, of course, 

VAN dieman's land. 209 

on the principles of English Law. There are also, connected 
with the administration of justice in the Island, a Chief and 
Puisne Judge, Solicitor, and Attorney General, &c. they have 
also the trial by jury, but, in all capital cases, the juries are 
wholly composed of Naval and Military officers. 

To the eternal disgrace of the Colonial legislature, they have 
no Bankrupt Act ; so that if a poor debtor get incarcerated for 
£5. he is liable to remain so for life. While I was in the 
island, in consequence of the petitions of some of the debtors, 
a temporary act was passed for the relief of those then confined ; 
and among those who took the benefit of this act, was one poor 
man who had been in goal for six years, for the paltry sum of £4. 
The Legislative Council sit with closed doors, notwithstanding 
the able and spirited address of Dr. Ross, the intelligent editor 
of the ^* Hobart Town Courier,'^ who was allowed, by courtesy, 
to speak before the Council on the propriety of admitting the 
Editors of the Newspapers, so that they might report the debates : 
one of the greatest opposers of the freedom of the press was a 
**ci devant" shoe-maker, named Willis, who left this country 
about fourteen years since, a poor man, and by good fortune has 
become rich enough to take his seat as a M.L.C., in which ca- 
pacity he signalizes himself by the assumption of aristocratic airs, 
which fit him as a regal dress does a strolling player. He, a short 
time since, endeavoured to pass an act for making all newspapers 
liable to postage, which would at once put a stop to the colonial 

W^ith regard to the produce and exports of the island : the 
principal is wool, to the cultivation of which ; as I have observed 
before, great attention is paid, and many thousand bales are an- 
nually exported ; the prices which it fetches in this country are 
from 1.9. 3d. to 2.?. 9^. Next to wool, as an article of profit to 
the settlers, is the whale fishery, which, of late years has been 
a very profitable speculation to those engaged in it. Sealing also 
has been followed up with a great deal of spirit by ^ome of the 
enterprizing settlers ; and every year several thousand skins, 
which are of the best fur, are sent home. Corn also is grown 
here, and sometimes to a great extent, but owing to the dryness 
of the seasons there is sometimes a scarcity, so that the price of 
course fluctuates, varying from 4s. per Winchester bushel, to 
14s, ditto; but the average price may be quoted at 6s. All En- 
glish fruits and vegetables thrive here ; and the former even in 
greater profusion than in England; but none of tliem possess 
VOL. V. — 1835. cc 

210 VAN dieman's land. 

that rich flavour which they have in their native soil. An article 
which has of late years been exported in considerable quantities, 
is the bark of a species of mimosa, called the wattle ; this bark 
is used for tanning leather, and possesses a much greater quantity 
of tannin than even oak bark, but whether it be owing to the 
much shorter time in which they tan leather in the colony I am 
not aware, but the shoes made of leather tanned with this barfc 
will not last half so long as those made in England. I am in- 
clined to think that were a proper time given to the processes of 
tanning, the leather would be more durable. 

Timljer has, at different times, been exported to England^ 
but I believe that it has seldom given anything like an adequate 
profit for the money laid out, although there are some woods in 
the Island, more especially the Blackwood, which make very 
handsome articles of furniture; but, owing to the price of labour 
m the colony, there has been but little used, as it is fourui 
cheaper to import articles of furniture from England. It will be 
necessary for the settlers to devote their attention to the discovery 
of some article fit for export, as the mimosa bark will in a year 
or two cease to be procurable in sufficient quantities to send home. 
To be sure the whale fisheries are on the increase, but it may 
happen tliat there may be an unsuccessful season, and then there 
will be a want of dead weight for vessels taking home wool. 

Having now hastily described the Island, and its produce, I 
shall proceed to a description of its towns. Hobart Town, the 
capital of the Island, contains the residence of the Lieut. Go- 
vernoi-; and is in Latitude 43 degrees, South ; Longitude 147 
degrees, 20 minutes, East. It is situated on the banks of the 
River Derwent, which river is navigable for many miles above 
tins town, which is well built and prettily situated, and when 
first seen from the anchorage presents a most beautiful appearance. 
Immediately facing you on the summit of a hill, surrounded by 
a beautiful shrubbery of native and exotic plants and trees, is 
Government House, where resides the Governor. The house 
has nothing particularly splendid in its .appearance, but looks 
like a comfortable gentleman's house. To the right of you is 
seen the old jetty ; here hitherto all the cargoes of vessels were 
discharged ; but this is now deserted for the new wharf; on this 
jetty are situated many fine merchants' stores, and the bonded 
warehouses. Here also ply the watermen, who muster in con- 
siderable numbers; and who, thanks to the municipal police, can 
charge but a certain price for their hire, so that they are pre- 
vented from imposing on any one. 

VAN dieman's land. 21 1 

On landing, a stranger is greatly struck with the bustle which 
he witnesses : the crews of the different vessels discharging their 
cargpes, the warehousemen stowing them away, with the crowd 
of watermen around him, puts him in mind of a populous sea 
port in England ; on the old jetty, to tempt you as you land, is 
the Commercial Inn, which has one of the finest coffee rooms I 
ever saw. Here a person may enjoy all the products of its 
ctiisine at a cheap rate, considering the disparity of prices between 
Van Dieman's Land and England. After crossing over an em- 
bankment, you arrive at the foot of Macquire Street, which is the 
aristocratic street of the town ; in it are situated most of the 
public buildings, viz. the Government house, the Treasury, 
Court House, Goal, &c., &c., also very many beautiful houses, 
the residences of the civil officers, merchants, &c. This street is 
the promenade of the town, and a person who goes to this Island, 
thinking to find it a wilderness, will be astonished at the gaiety 
of the scene ; ladies in rich dresses, officers of the army, invalids 
from the East Indies, with their sable attendants, and dashing equi- 
pages: and now and then some of the chiefs from New Zealand, 
with their tattoed faces, give an air of gaiety to the scene, which 
could scarcely be expected at such a distance from England. In 
this street is one of the most comfortable inns I ever saw, and 
witlial most splendidly fitted up; viz. the "Macquire Hotel:" 
this is the haunt of most of the young bloods of the town, who 
resort thither to play billiards, whicli practice is carried to a great 
and sometimes ruinous extent. 

The public buildings are scarcely deserving notice, beyond that 
they are all erected with ei view to the combination of the " utile 
cum dulce;" with one vile exception, viz, the Goal. A prison 
should not be a place of splendour ; but this is a disgrace to a 
civilized country : the poor debtors, who may remain incarcerated 
for life, have worse accommodations than felons in England, but 
there is a project for building a new one, so that I hope this will 
soon cease to be a stigma on the humanity of the colonial authori- 
ties. In this street is the St. David's Chapel, a very neat 
Gothic building, surrounded by a shrubbery: here officiates the 
Rev. Mr. Bedford, the colonial chaplain, who has been many 
years in the Island. A curious story is told of this gentleman, 
on the occasion of erecting a new gallows, some years since, in 
consequence of the old one not being sufficiently large. The 
Rev. Gentleman was asked to view one, on seeing which he 
rubbed his honcU, and with the greatest naivete said, " Ah, bless 

212 VAN dieman's land. 

me, this is something like ; nine might be suspended here at a 
push, but seven could be hanged comfortably :" thus letting the 
people know that there was a comfort even in being hanged 

I omitted mentioning in its proper place the New Wharf; on 
this are in building many splendid stores, for merchants ; all are 
erected after plans furnished by government ; and so great is the 
demand for land in this part, that one allotment sold at the 
rate of £2,360. per acre. Ships of all sizes will be able to 
lay along side this wharf to discharge and take in their cargoes; 
water is brought down by pipes to the shipping from the reservoir, 
which is at a little distance ; on this wharf also is the New 
Market, which was opened while I was in the Island ; this is well 
supplied with all kinds offish, flesh, vegetables, &c. 

All the streets in Ilobart Town, and in fact, in all the town- 
ships in the Island, are laid out at right angles to each other. 
They are very wide, some of them handsome, and are fast "pro- 
gressing," as our friends the Yankees say. Many of the shops 
are very handsome, although from the diversity of goods sold in 
them, they have different appearances from those in England. 
There is also a trifling disparity between English and A'an Die- 
man's Land shops, viz., in the price of the goods sold in them. 

Nearly in the centre of the town, but in a retired situation, are 
the prisoners' barracks, where the convicts are placed when they 
arrive from England, prior to being assigned. Here also they 
are punished, when for any offences they incur the punishment 
of being flogged : their punishments are pretty severe, although 
well merited. 

The population of Ilobart Town is about 14,000, including 
the military and prisoners, but every week brings a great addition 
to their numbers from England : it is not at all unusual for 1,000 
people, free emigrants and prisoners ; to arrive in the course of a 
month ; so that a new census ought to be made every year. 

This town has not one manufacture of any consequence ; there 
are a tan-yard or two with some breweries (their beer by the bye 
is wretched stuff). There are also two distilleries, which send 
out what is called colonial whisky, but imlike all other whisky 
which I have ever tasted, except in colour : its sole recommenda- 
tion is its great strength, which is a quality highly prized by the 
convicts, who, men and women, drink quantities of spirits. Talk 
of gin drinking in England! it cannot in any way compare with 
Van Dieman's Land in that respect, consequently public houses 

VERSES. 213 

are in general very profitable concerns (as a Gentleman who is 
now very rich, in this neighbourhood, can testify) : every street 
has five or six public houses in it. Some of their signs are very 
curious; one is called the " Labour in vain," there is a picture 
over the door, of some old women endeavouring to scrub a black 
man white; there are many others equally expressive. 

About a mile from Hobart Town is the Government Garden, 
which with the domain around it, are well worth viewing ; in the 
garden will be found plants and flowers from all countries. There 
are the New Zealand flax, the Norfolk Island pine, the orange 
tree, with exotics from the East Indies, and most of the South 
Sea Islands. The intelligent superintendent, Mr. Davidson, 
is always happy to show any strangers the garden and point out 
to them what is worth notice. Here are also several specimens 
of the zoology of the island, black swans, (the Rara avis in terris) 
Devils, Kangaroos (the animal which, as Peter Simple says, 
brings forth four young ones at a time and then puts them into 
her belly till they arrive at the years of discretion), with many 
other native animals, birds, &c. &c. are collected here. 

In my next paper I shall treat on the subject of Emigration. 



Sweet is the shade of yonder vale 

When all around is still, 
And dewy evening*s light-winged gale 

Floats round the voiceless hill. 
Solemn the echo of the dell, 

Which breaks the silent gloom ; 
W^hilst mournfully the village bell 

Peals forth its sound of doom. 

The sword is rusted in the sheath. 

Rest ! Spirits of the Brave ; 
W'ho fought our battles on the heath 

That, now, o'er-spreads their grave. 
The torrents' voice all time expressed. 

The night winds' fitful roar. 
Can never break their tranquil rest — 

Can never wake them more. 
Yealmpton. ' 


" D A C R E ." 

A THOUSAND opportunities for falling in love are afforded to young 
people in a continental tour, which are denied them in England. 
The mountain path cannot be ascended alone, but imperatively 
requires the supporting arm of the companion : without his 
careful assistance the mule would not thread its dangerous way, 
and her safety requires his attendance at her side. The distant 
expedition brings a moonlight return. They listen to the mur- 
muring ripple of the wave as it gently reaches the shore, and the 
joyous sound of voices softened by the distance breaks upon the 
ear. They gaze on the tremulous stream of silver light which 
dances on the scarcely ruffled waters, and watch with wonder and 
delight the red bickering flame that ever and anon shoots upwards 
from the summit of Vesuvius. Their feelings are brought into 
unison by sympathy in the contemplative pleasures which such 
scenes must produce ; and the gay frivolity of the ball room is 
exchanged for the silent enthusiasm which nature awakes. 

It is at moments like these, when the petty anxieties of life are 
absorbed in the sublimity of the scene — when the thoughts are 
- not selfishly engaged in a search for admiration — when the heart 
is not hardened by the vain ambition of conquest — that we are 
most accessible to tenderness and attachment. It is at moments 
like these that — when silence is at length broken — the warm in 
heart and the pure in mind dare to pour forth those sentiments 
which are least suited to the gaiety of society, and least under- 
stood by the cold and reckless. 

There are many to whom the name of a ball conveys no other 
idea than the meeting of various persons, to indulge in the un- 
meaning practice of dancing: there are others who look upon a 
ball as the means of conquest and display. By some it is re- 
garded as the business of life ; by others as the frivolous recrea- 
tion of unthinking people. By the wily matron it is viewed as a 
market; by the presumptuous heir apparent as the bazaar from 
which he may select his mate at pleasure; and there are those 
among the elders, who, regarding it as the innocent outbreak of 
joy and mirth in the young, benignantly approve of such a safety- 
valve to the exuberance of youthful spirits. But with far other 

BACRE. 215 

feelings is such a scene viewed by the lover^ for to him only it 
becomes the theatre of romance, and the dwelling-place of passion . 
There have been some who think that love is a native of the 
rocks; but its birth-place matters little, when once it is called 
into being, for it can thrive alike wherever it is transplanted. It 
shrouds itself in an atmosphere of its own creation, and sees the 
surrounding objects through the medium of its own fanciful halo. 
The existence of color depends not more on the rays of the sun, 
than depends the hue which is lent to all that is external, upon 
the internal feelings of the mind. The bustling scenes of gaiety 
may appear ill suited to the indulgence of deep feeling ; yet the 
mind which is preoccupied by one absorbing thought, has not 
only an inward attraction that bids defiance to the intrusions of 
others, but has even the power of converting into aliment ail 
that should tend to destroy its force. The crowds that pass 
before the eyes of a lover, seem but as a procession of which his 
mistress is the queen. If he talks to another, it is to listen to 
the welcome theme of her praise from the voice of partial friend- 
ship ; and if the actions of others ever attract his attention, it is 
to observe, with the jealous watchfulness of a lover, the manner 
and reception of those whom he regards as rivals. 

There is generally some difficulty in passing the first evening 
of a country-house visit; and it is upon these occasions that even 
the semblance of something to do, is an object to the unoccupied 
guests. Then it is that the pages of splendid Albums filled with 
nonsense verses, and bad drawings on richly embossed paper, 
are eagerly turned over, more to employ the fingers than to please 
the eye. Then does the click of the billiard ball sound sweet as 
melody to the ear ; and music becomes welcome, not for its 
beauty, but its noise. 



It is a shadowy crevice of the Wood, 

Wild, though not stern, and lonesome, but not rude ; 

So green and fresh with mingling boughs around, 

And waving fret- work o*er the untrodden ground ; 

The tall dark crag, its roughness worn away, 

Shines with the dashing Cataract's frothy spray ; 

Which like a snow-white pillar seems to tower 

Far in the deep recesses of its bower ; 

Its hoary head among the verdure hides. 

And bathes the dripping leaves that arch its sides. 

Green oaks and hazels over-hanging all 

The steepy edges of the Waterfall; 

'Till far above, their clustering arms between. 

Small space of sky in narrow glimpse is seen ; 

And there the sun at blaze of Noon ye view. 

Piercing with arrowy rays the foliage through ; 

That change the lucid water's scattered face 

To molten crystal in that secret place ; 

While from its broken column, sprinkling dews 

Hang in the air, and o'er the leaves diffuse. 

In glittering wreathes the rapid waves alight, 

And 'mid the darkling hollow re-»:nite : 

Then onward tending to their native place. 

Roll their soothed billows into Lyd's embrace, 

As thence composed, along the forest-lea 

He journeys gaily downward to the Sea; 

And watery Nymphs around his footsteps pay 

Their foam-light crowns, and sing the spousal lay. 

Now further through that wild-wood dell advance. 
Where jocund Fairies weave their moon-lit dance; 
Or 'mid a thousand flowers their revels hold. 
And elfin banquet pledge in solid gold. 
Fit scene, meet haunt, around ye may descry 
For spirit-things — if spirits should be nigh : — 
Cool waves the sycamore its darksome shades. 
And silvery aspens bend in light arcades ; 
The clustered oaks a greener roof extend, 
And tlie grey ash doth with the beeches blend. 


Beneath fair bloom the flowers in mingling dyes, 

And water shrubs along the margin rise; 

So thick and gay, no hand of man had care 

With toil or studious art to plant them there ; 

But ever springing as the seasons run, 

Spread their young foreheads to the nursing Sun ; 

In balmy showers their growing leaves unclose. 

And scent each breeze that o'er the forest blows. 

Such place had been in classic days of eld 

By pastoral gods with sacred joy beheld ; 

Here ancient Pan had tuned his reed, and all 

The mirthsome Dryads hailed the favorite call ; 

With bounding Fauns some sportive measure wove 

By Lyd's gay margin and romantic grove, 

'Till music's echoes bade the wild rejoice, 

And rugged rocks sighed back the tuneful voice. 

For me, my sylvan Harp, unheedful strung, 
On the witch-elm beside the Cataract hung ; 
Hath felt at intervals the passing breeze 
Swell o'er its chords, and soften by degrees — 
Still lingering, — as in timid love to ask 
The wonted tribute of this spell-born task ! 
Where winds and waters every echo fill 
With noble promptings to poetic skill ; 
Such as, by common ear unheard, unknown, 
Inspire and charm the Poet's heart alone ; 
Whose spirit moulded by some secret power 
Yields to the unseen Genius of the Bower ; — 
Yet as he sings, but only half reveals 
The winning sense his eager bosom feels, 
In wood or wild, in forest, or in glen. 
Taught by the secret soul that warms him then. 

From " Castalian Hours" 

VOL. V. — 1835. 


The inevitable delay, however, gave him time to arrange his 
plans; and long before his valet and prime-minister was up, 
and down, he had settled the programme of the whole perform- 

This valet was a character — that is to say, if having no char- 
acter except that which he brought from his last place, justifies 
one in saying so. His name was Twigg; he was his master's 
counsellor and adviser upon many occasions; and it was to his 
not having employed him in the Harley Street stratagem, that 
Saville attributed its lamentable failure, and his consequent 
disagreeable exposure. Saville had a high opinion of Twigg's 
judgment upon many topics; he had before this, discussed the 
subject of the elopement, and had been much edified by his man*s 
remarks and observations; he was attached to him for his fidelity 
and prudence, and considered him " quite a treasure " in the way 
of guarding him against imposition, and directing him to bargains ; 
the truth being, that Twigg had not three ideas in the world 
beyond taking the best possible care of himself. The only virtue 
he possessed, consisted in a studious accommodation of himself 
to his master's will and opinion, and in always agreeing with him 
upon every point under discussion; constantly appearing to 
originate something, which his master pronounced exceedingly 
wise ^nd clever, but which, in fact, was neither more nor less, 
than a new version of some old proposition which had been pre- 
viously made by Saville himself. 

" Twigg," said Saville, " shut the door." — The door of course 
was shut. — " I am resolved to put my scheme in practice with 
regard to Miss Franklin. Have you got the paper about the line 
of posting down the north-road, which you had from Newman ?" 

" I have, Sir," said Twigg. 

" I cannot sit down quietly and give her up," said Saville; — 
" the affair is perfectly simple." 

" Very, Sir,'^ said Twigg. 

•* Of course every man knows his own business best" — said 
Saville, " but — I — upon my life — I do n't know — I think it is 
better at once to make the plunge; and I question whether it is 
not wiser to be rash for an hour, than miserable for life." 

" It is a question. Sir." 

" Yet, Twigg, if I hesitate the opportunity is lost." 

" So it is, Sir." 


**She cannot fail of being wretched with Smith." 

" Impossible ! '* said Twigg. 

" He is a worthy man," said Saville, muttering to himself. 

*' Very, Sir," said Twigg. 

" But not suited to herT 

" By no means," said Twigg. 

" He 's sixty-three at least." 

" Yes, Sir, full sixty-three," said Twigg, 

" That, to be sure, is not so very old." 

" No, Sir," said Twigg, " not so very old ." 

" Too old for a girl of nineteen." 

" Oh ! much too old, Sir," said Twigg. 

" I believe she is fond of wze," said Saville — like a fool. 

" Very, Sir," said Twigg — like a knave. 

" Do you think so Twigg ? " said Saville. 

« I do. Sir," replied Twigg. 

" How d' ye know ? '^ 

"Umph ! I do n't know,^- said Twigg; "servants talk, Sir." 

"To be sure they do — very proper they should." 

" Very, Sir." 

"Did Miss Franklin's maid ever touch upon the subject with 

" Do what. Sir ? " said Twigg. 

" Speak of her young lady's affection for me ? " 

" In course, Sir," said Twigg, " what I say to you upon that, 
won't go to the old lady ? " 

" Certainly not." 

" Well," said Twigg, " we have argued it over now and then ; 
and one night as we were sitting in the servants' hall — for there 's 
no second table at Mrs. Franklin's — Thomas the footman comes 
to the door, and he says, says he to me, ^ Saville, you 're wanted.' '' 

" Saville ? " said Charles, " Twigg, you mean." 

"I mean Twigg, Sir," replied he; "but we are always called 
after our master's names — it saves trouble. * Saville,' says he 
* you 're wanted.' *Ah,' says Miss Johnstone, Miss Harriet's 
maid, says she, ^ the time is n't far distant, I think, when we shall 
all be united in one establishment.' " 

"That looks ominous," said Saville. 

"Very, Sir," answered Twigg. 

" And with that, Sir," continued Twigg, " we began talking of 
one foolish thing and another, and at last we talked about 3/0M, 
and I thought— thinks I — if my master marries Miss Franklin — " 


" Saville the second might marry Miss Johnstone," interrupted 

" Exactly so, Sir," said Twigg; "it 's the way they does it in 
books, and plays, and novels, and — " 

" Perfectly natural," said Saville. 

" Very, Sir," said Twigg. 



Thou dell of vernal freshness and delight ! 

Set like a radiant jewel 'mid the steeps; 
Sheltered and clasped by every rugged height 

That o'er each nook Titanic vigil keeps, — 

I seek thee, and I love thee, — even when creeps 
The twilight breeze amid thy sprays so slight ; 

Or through thy dark pines waving, into heaps 
Tosses their massy bows with giant might. 
And unto thee I come, and where the wave 

Of waters, turbulent or placid, flows, 
I wander too, and watch those billows lave 

Their moss-grown banks, and blossoms of repose: 
Bright wave ! sweet banks ! where thy young Genius gave 

His own pure breath to every bud that blows. 


Thou quiet Midnight — starred with worlds divine, 
My hour congenial! when all human stir 

Is hushed and gone,— and Nature doth prefer 
A shadow and a glory, like to thine : 

When this great Universe becomes a shrine 
Of majesty and power; a register 
And chronicle, whose pages cannot err, 

Blazoned in gems of God's eternal mine. 

This darkness is but that their beam may pour 
Brighter on eyes material ; and display 
In the full glow of each immortal ray. 

Knowledge, ekrth's sullen hearts had not before; 

Winning, while ever showing more and more. 
The eloquent lesson, none can teach as they. 

From " Castalian Hours'^ 



To those who are regardless of dust, rain, and heat, 
and to whom broken legs and arms are every day in- 
cidents, the outside of a coach is, no doubt, more 
agreeable than the inside ; but to those who were 
born when the insides of carriages were considered 
the better places, and in which a man is secured 
against the sudden and frequent changes of our ex- 
traordinary climate, the right hand corner facing the 
horses seems to be no uncomfortable position. 
In such a corner was Saville deposited, when 
the Rocket darted forwards on the high road to 

And what road is fuller of interest to thousands of 
our fellow-subjects. It is one of the great paths of 
our nation which leads the anxious merchant to his 
foreign store, the seaman to his fearful trade, and 
on which the devoted lover journies from his anxious 
mistress, and the faithful husband from his constant 
wife. Along that road has many a noble soldier 
travelled, to whom there has been no return ; along 
that road the British sailor has often sped to victory 
or death. It does not strike the ordinary run of ad - 
mirers of well appointed public carriages, who stand 
and praise the neat " turn out," and the " well bred 
cattle" of these Portsmouth coaches, what interest 
for others hangs upon their wheels; nor as they roll 
along the level ground, does the casual observer 
think what feelings, what hopes, what fears, what 
doubts, what anticipations, and what regrets are 
pent within their pannels. 

In the coach with Saville were three other pass- 
engers — the full allowance : two were friends ; the 
third, like Saville himself, was an independent, iso- 
lated traveller. What he was, or what was the 
object of his journey, of course remained within his 
own bosom. Of the other two, one was a partner in 
a mercantile house at the Cape of Good Hope, 
where he never had been, and the other, one who 


had recently arrived from that fine colony, and had 
succeeded in persuading his companion to go out, as 
Southey says the Devil did, when he visited his 
" snug Httle farm, the earth/' in order — 

" to see how his stock went on." 

The experienced voyager, the active speculator, 
was all alive and in excellent spirits, — full of jest, 
and glee, and gaiety ; to him the trees looked green 
and the sun shone bright, and not a word could be 
spoken, nor an incident occur that he did not turn to 
jest and merriment. Not so his companion : he was 
grave and pale, and July as it was, wore tight blue 
worsted pantaloons and Hessian boots. He spoke 
little, but sighed much, complained of the heat in 
murmured accents, and for want of other conversation 
augured rain and thunder ; — he dozed a little, and 
then needlessly apologised to his companions for 
what he thought unseemly conduct, by telHng them 
that he had been married eleven years ; that he had 
never been apart from his wife and children one 
whole day since his marriage*; and that he had, at 
the persuasion of his excellent friend, resolved to 
undertake a voyage to Africa, upon business, although 
he had never before been at sea, or even beheld it, 
except from the Steyne at Brighton, or the Pier at 
Margate. " I slept little last night," said he, " I am 
not used to partings, and it has been a sad morning 
for mcy gentlemen." 

The appeal was uncalled for; but having been 
made, it was received by the stranger travellers with 
courtesy and sympathy ; it was met with a horse 
laugh by his friend, who, being a bachelor, on his 
return to what he had established as his home in 
Cape Town, wondered how any man could be so 
silly as to waste a thought or a sigh upon an affec- 
tionate spouse and seven children, and a country 
like England, when he was travelling at the rate of 
ten miles an hour towards Africa, and the detection 
of a pilfering partner. 


Charles's feelings were just in a fit state to sym- 
pathize with this " parted husband/' but even his 
commiseration seemed light by comparison with that 
of the fourth passenger, whose melancholy appeared 
to increase with the distance from London. To 
Saville, the general disposition to silence (with the 
exception of the Cape Town Winkle-keeper) was 
particularly agreeable ; and while his eyes remained 
unconsciously fixed upon the houses and hedges 
that seemed to dance by the rapidly moving coach, 
his thoughts remained fixed upon Harriet, while 
amidst the measured rumble of the wheels, he fan- 
cied he could trace the melody of the air " she loved 
so much to sing." 

After a transient refreshment the party seemed 
more familiarized to each other, and even Saville 
himself condescended from his stilts and joined in 
the conversation ; the melancholy man in the left- 
hand corner unbent his brow, and added his mite to 
the verbal contribution of his companions, till at 
length the subject of lotteries was started by the 
Winkle-keeper, who declared an opinion that nobody 
ever got a prize. 

This statement was stoutly contradicted by the 
melancholy man, who seemed io derive a vast rein- 
forcement of animation from the subject : he enu- 
merated Dukes, Members of Parliament, Hampshire 
squires, Bloomsbury attornies, and Pall Mall pastry- 
cooks, who had, all to his own knowledge, been 
splendidly and suddenly enriched by the acquisition 
of large sums. " Indeed, Sir," added he, " even I 
myself might have been worth thirty thousand 
pounds more than I am at this moment, by the same 
means, if it had not been for an accidental circum- 
stance over which I had no controul." 

^^ What might that have been? said the Winkle- 
man, — " choosing the wrong number, perhaps ?" 

^^ Not so. Sir," said the melancholy gentleman, 
his countenance at the same moment assuming an 
expression rather of ^^ anger than of sorrow," — ^^ I 


did choose the right number — bought it — brought it 
home — and had it in my Ubrary table drawer-^ 

" It was stolen, perhaps, Sir?" said the Winkle- 
man's friend, in a piteous tone. 

'^ No, Sir, not that. I had it — it was mine — it 
was in the days when lotteries lasted a month, and 
tickets rose in value as they continued undrawn. 
I went into the city on business — a friend, who 
knew of my ticket, called in my absence — offered 
my wife a hundred and twenty guineas for it ; — she 
knew that it had cost me but five-and-twenty ; — 
sold it him — all for my good, poor soul — she's in 
heaven now. Sir — it's no use scolding about it — ^it 
won't bring it back — and the very same afternoon — 
d — n me — I 'm sure you'll excuse my swearing at 
the recollection — it came up a thirty thousand pound 
prize !" 

A general exclamation of horror followed the 

" And now. Sir," continued the gentleman, " as 
I walk along the streets in wet weather, because I 
cannot afford a hackney-coach, my friend Dodman, 
the lucky purchaser, dashes by in his carriage, and 
splashes me with mud. He lives in a house which 
I had all my life an anxiety to possess ; and has re- 
fused his consent to his son's marrying my daughter, 
on the plea of her poverty." 

It was evident the melancholy gentleman felt the 
circumstances keenly. 

" Well," said Saville, " I don't think I could have 
survived such a thing." 

" Only conceive. Sir," said the gentleman, seem- 
ing to delight in aggravating all the miseries of his 
loss, — '^ only conceive my coming home out of the 
city — having seen my number placarded at Comhill 
as the prize — having compared it with the memo- 
randum in my pocket-book — having bought a neck- 
lace and pair of earrings for my wife upon the 
strength of it — and finding, upon my arrival, that 


she had sold my thirty thousand pounds, which I 
was sure was in my pocket, to a man I hated, for 
one hundred and twenty guineas, which she ex- 
ultingly exhibited, and which, with thirty-five more, 
went to pay for the baubles I had brought her 

" I could not have stood that,*' said the Win- 
, ic ]\j-^j. j^»' g^j^ ^Y\e weeping husband. 

'^ I," said Saville, " should have cut my throat." 

" So I did, Sir !" said the melancholy gentleman, 

"and here are the marks where it was sewn up V — 

exhibiting, at the same moment, a huge scar right 

across the windpipe. 

To describe the sudden coil-up of the three lis- 
teners, when the narrator of his own misfortunes 
made this disclosure, would be impossible ; — in a 
moment they unanimously construed all his previous 
observations and remarks into symptoms of his yet 
latent malady ; and never were rightly at their ease 
until they were blessed with the sight of his back, 
as he descended the steps of the coach at the door 
of the Dolphin, at Petersfield. 


Torquay is one of those places which has rapidly grown into 
notice of late years, although it was formerly little more than a 
collection of fishermen's huts, scattered at irregular distances, and 
distinguished only for a plentiful supply of fish. It was at some 
distant period, that the enlightened schemes of Sir Lawrence Palk 
raised Torquay from the obscurity in which it had so long slept, 
and brought those unrivalled beauties of scenery which it possesses 
prominently before the public attention ; and it is to the inde- 
fatigable industry and unweared efforts of this liberal-minded 
baronet, that Torquay owes its present fashionable celebrity : 
and although those bounties which have been lavished by nature 
so freely, are such as could not escape the eye of the man of 
feeling, or poet, yet notwithstanding these of themselves would 

VOL. V. — 1835. EE 


have been insufficient to have elevated her to the present point in 
the scale of rank, but for the diligence of the individual before 
alluded to. Nature seems to have formed Torquay, as if with 
an intuitive foresight as to its future destination, and to have 
erected by her magjical exertions, a world of wonder in miniature; 
and as if in a freak of her playful fancies she had deterniined to 
try her skill in producing most happily one of the most lovely 
little coves, and luxuriant gardens, wliich adorn the varied and 
refreshing landscapes of Devon. Its appearance to the stranger 
on his first entrance is of the most delightful kind : a pretty little 
basin of water, round it quays, handsome shops in its front, 
elegant terraces rising: perspective on the one hand, richly fertile 
woods on the other, classical villas peeping out from green shrub- 
beries, and before you an expanse of ocean almost unbounded in 
its extent, dashing in its foam upon the shores, and rolling in 
with that peculiar noise which is indescribable to him, who has 
not heard it. Now this, methinks, is a very bright picture, very 
dazzling, highly colored, and well dipped in the colors of the 
imagination ; but perhaps rather a delusion of the poetical faculty, 
than a sober description of the truth. Goethe would have started 
into poetry had he once viewed Torquay, — you cannot help it, 
you are overcome by the picturesque, — and you cannot clothe ia 
words the unspeakable feelings of your heart. But there is 
another side to the pancake. Here are big houses, and big rents ; 
big lodgings, and big demands ; big inns, and big expences ; and 
very very big shopkeepers, almost bursting with pride. Now I 
hereby recommend every lady, whether married or maiden, and 
every gentleman, whether single or crossed with a wife, and pro- 
vided he or she has plenty of money, to go there for a trip, and 
to be extremely careful how he or she parts with it : for the 
waiters are as civil as possible, and the ladies' maids are so pretty, 
and therefore expect something, and the landladies are so clean' 
and so anxious about the state of your health and pockets ; and 
every thing is so very handy, that you ought to have a very tight 
button on every pocket. 

M. A. P. 



"'^ II. — What causes the change of colour in polished steel, while 
undergoing the process of tempering ? '' 

The change of colour produced on the polished surface of 
steel or iron, by the application of heat, is occasioned by a par- 
tial oxidation of an extremely thin film of the metal, in conse- 
cjuence of its combination with the oxygen of the atmosphere, for 
which it has a great affinity ; which is moreover increased by the 
application of heat. The first change observable on the bright 
surface, is that of a pale straw-colour, which gradually becomes 
darker, with a shade of brown ; this, by a further increase of 
temperature, becomes gradually darker, until it assumes the 
colour of a deep blue or purple. If the heat be continued, this 
blue colour loses its brilliancy, and at length gives place to a dull 
lead-colour ; about which time the metal begins to get red hot ; 
after doing which, the film of oxide will, on its becoming cold, 
be so thick as to scale off. 

If the polished metal be oiled, previously to its being heated, 
no change in its colour will be produced ; since the oil defends 
it from the action of the atmosphere. Analagous changes of 
colour may also be produced on the bright surface of copper, by 
heat, in consequence of oxide on its surface. This colour instant- 
ly disappears, and the surface becomes bright, by contact of resin 
or grease of any kind; since these substances re-convert the 
oxide into metal. 

" III. — What law of mechanics will account for the superior 
power of a long screw-driver, though the handle be no larger than 
that of a short one ? '' 

It is an indisputable fact that a screw can be driven " home '* 
much more easily and forcibly by a long screw driver than by a 
short one, even when the handles of both are similar. Many 
have supposed that this arises from an actual increase of mechani- 
cal power, which, they have attempted to show, results from the 
application of the moving power at a greater distance from the 
body to be moved. But this principle of mechanics will not be 
found at all applicable to a case of this kind, as will be presently 
shown ; and the only advantage gained, is the greater facility of 
applying and using any given power. In order to set this matter 
in the fairest point of view, the following experiments were m«idc 


by the writer some time since ; firstly — a piece of iron, about 
three inches long, and a quarter of an inch thick, with a notched 
head at one end, like a three inch screw, was placed horizontally 
in a hole, in which it could be made to turn with any degree of 
friction ; a nine inch screw-driver was then placed, with the 
end of the blade in the notch of the screw, while the handle was 
retained in the line of direction of the screw, by means of a stee! 
point acting on the opposite, and through an upright puppet head : 
a lever of a given length was screwed into the handle, at right 
angles to the blade, or what amounted to the same thing, a wheel 
of a given diameter was fastened upon the handle, so as to revolve 
with the screw-driver. On a groove in the circumference of the 
wheel passed a cord, having a hook at the end, by attaching 
weights to which the power neceasavy to cause the screw-driver 
and screw to revolve could be easily estimated. 

Secondly — this power being ascertained, the short screw-driver 
was removed, and a screw-driver, 2 feet 4 inches in length, mounted 
in a similar manner, "was substituted, and the weight necessary 
to turn it was found to be precisely the same. 

Thirdly — greater friction was given to the screw, and the 
former experiments were repeated with the same result. The power 
required to turn each screw-driver being the same. 

Fourthly — the experiment was varied by substituting for the 
screw-drivers, a flat blade of steel, four feet long, having a handle 
and wheel which slid upon it and which could be fixed at any 
distance from the head of the screw, and it was found, that the 
power required to overcome any given degree of friction W3S the 
same at all distances; hence it is evident that no absolute me- 
chanical power is gained by a long screw-driver over a short one. 
The advantage is simply this, with a short screw-driver the bands 
of the operator are employed almost close together; consequently 
very little steadiness can be ensured, and a very slight deviation 
from the perpendicular causes one comer of the flat end of the 
blade to lift out of the notch, and thereby slip and mutilate the 
screw ; whereas, a long screvy-dviver is not only more easily kept 
in its position, but affords, by its great distance from the work, 
more room and consequently greater facility for the application 
"of muscular exertion, which is actually the only advantage 
gained . 

«IV\ — Why does a wedge shaped piece of timber require 
less force to draw it through water, with the butt end than with 
the sharp end foremost ? " 

FISHES. 229 

The reason why a wedge shaped piece of timber requires a 
greater force to draw it through the water sharp end foremost 
appears to be this : — the wood occupies in water a certain space, 
by changing its situation a vacancy is formed, which is instantly 
filled up by the surrounding water. Since the water itself is 
inert, it is evident that its disposition to follow the wood, and fill 
up the vacancy left by it, can be only produced by ,the joint 
action of its own gravity and atmospheric pressure ; therefore, the 
vfeiocity with which it can follow the wood will always be less 
than that of the wood itself, and this disproportion will be greater 
as the velocity of the wood increases; consequently, the resistance 
offered to it in front will be increased by the partial vacuity 
existing behind it from the sluggishness with which the water 
follows to fill it up. When moving butt end foremost this does 
not take place ; because the tapering form not only enables it to 
leave the surface of the water, with which it was in contact more 
gradually, but, by allowing it to act laterally, in filling up the 
space left by it, no after current is produced. 

J. N. H. 


In the general view of the nature and organization 
of Fishes which has lately appeared in Mr. Griffith's 
version of Baron Cuvier's "Animal Kingdom," Lieut. 
Col. Hamilton Smith, ahthor of this part of the 
work, has introduced his observations on the geo- 
graphical distribution, habitat, and migrations of 
fishes, and communicated from his own researches 
several facts which bear strongly upon the conditions 
of existence which Providence appears to have im- 
pressed upon this class of animals. BeUeving that 
there is much of curious interest in the inquiry ; we 
deem it will prove acceptable to our readers to have 
some parts of his corrected and revised munuscript, 
on this subject, laid before them ; we shall therefore 
merely premise, that having first described, mostly 
in the animated language of the baron, the general 

230 FISHES. 

view of the nature and organization of fishes he 
proceeds as follows. 

The watery element where fish were appointed to 
reside, not being, as already noticed, liable, like the 
atmosphere, to great and rapid alternations of heat 
and cold ; and the blood offish remaining in a tem- 
perature often lower than the surrounding fluid, none 
of the greater divisions of this class of animals are 
so strictly confined to either high or low latitudes, 
as those of others breathing the air. But there is a 
circumstance affecting fish, to which, in their turn, 
animals with lungs are strangers ; namely, the dif- 
ference in density and chemical properties between 
fresh and salt water ; the species belonging to each 
being unable to exist in the medium proper for the 
other, excepting some which pass with impunity from 
one into the other at pleasure, or during certain 
seasons. In other respects few natural families are 
without some genus or species to represent the forms 
and duties of its congeners in every sea. It is true, 
that we are not acquainted with what species, or in 
what numbers, the great depths of the ocean are 
more particularly inhabited ; but as we may infer, by 
analogy, from the conditions of existence in all the 
vertebrated animals ; that life undei; a continually 
increasing pressure, in proportion to the depths of 
the superincumbent column of water, must, at a 
given point reach the limit, where eternal darkness 
renders the organs of sight unavailing, and conse- 
quently where the power of obtaining or avoiding 
prey becomes impossible ; still lower, where all the 
action of animal life must cease ; where the gravity of 
no animal matter will descend, and, finally even 
where metals must remain suspended, many at- 
mospheres of water above these, we may therefore 
conclude to be the region where fish in a natural 
state can reside, comparatively, in short, at no great 
depth, and possibly not far below one hundred fathoms 
we must look for the lower limit of their active ex- 
istence, for the bottom of the sea, already, before 

FISHES. 231 

reaching to such a depth and lower beneath it, no 
longer offers, or at least scarcely offers, to the ob- 
server on the deep sea lead, aught except broken 
shells, teeth of fish, sand, and rock. No nets ex- 
ceeding half that depth are anywhere in use, and 
the fish which are sometimes caught at fifty fathoms 
below the surface, are in general of species provided 
with eyes of such magnitude as to indicate the proba- 
bility, that their enlarged organs of vision are neces- 
sary in a medium so dense and remote from the 
light. Besides it may be asked for what purpose 
fishes would descend, to depths where the action of 
their respiratory organs must be affected by the 
diminished quantity of air, if it were not to feed 
upon the ultimate beds of shell fish, which also could 
neither exist nor multiply if they were below the 
limits of light. For light, the manifestation of solar 
action, is necessary in a greater or less degree ; 
diurnally or at greater intervals ; to the whole of 
organic nature.^ The species therefore which peri- 
odically rise from the deep, and after a space return 

* As within the higher strata of the atmosphere life cannot be 
sustained for any prolonged period, so below the surface of 
the sea, at a depth where the density of the mass exceeds certain 
limits it is equally improbable that animated beings can exist. 
Coral animals are now known not to raise their stony habitations 
from the vast depths once assigned to them ; nor do we know of 
a well authenticated fact, establishing the existence of beds of 
shell fish (mollusca) so low down as one hundred and fifty fa- 
thoms of water. But at the depths where these lie and multiply, 
the gregarious species of fish and in particular the gadoid genera 
are known to arrive periodically to feed upon this living herb- 
age of the submarine floor for a given season, and not constantly, 
for that would exhaust the supply of food never again to be 
restored. Hither the shoals which come to feed are followed by 
more daring and more powerful enemies, for a period hanging 
on their flanks or mixed with the migratory tribes, to devour them 
in their turn. To guide the larger genera it appears that smaller 
species of the same family precede them, who are in their turn 
preceded by cephalopodes and other lower animals, each attract- 
ing the other and annualy passing over the same geographical 
space to perform the duties of their destiny. On the Banks of 

232 FISHES. 

again, acquire the powers of alternating their sta- 
tions nearer the surface, and sinking to repose at 
remoter distances from the operation of some action 
not unconnected with heat ; and therefore their retreats 
are probably not far beneath the known superficial 
curfents of the sea, and confined to the recesses of 
the shelving bases of continents, islands, and sub- 
marine elevations : there they may grovel in inaction, 
or perhaps hang suspended in a blind and toi-pid 
equilibrium, till a solstitial day, increased warmth 
on either hemisphere, or the periodical changes of 
a monsoon stimulating their organs into new excite^ 
ment, recommences the period of activity.* 

The business of gregarious fishes, such as ap- 
proach the shores periodically, appears to be con- 
Newfoundland, the whole of these phenomena may be distinctly 
observed : we have personally traced the su<;cessive arrivals of 
small Crustacea in the shoal waters of the coast, pursued by 
squids and capelings ; then followed by hake and cod, along 
with which holy-but and dog-fish were regularly caught, and 
between the depths of forty-five and sixty fathoms, the former 
had invariably shell fish in their stomachs while the latter ex- 
hibited the remains of gadi. 

* A fact which T witnessed in 1797, about the latitude of 
19.N., nearly midway between Africa and America seems to 
countenance this periodical blindness. An ill-contrived experi- 
ment having been made to ascertain the temperature of the seA 
at a great depth, with a deep sea lead, and 300 fathoms of line 
fastened to a bottle, the line became entangled and was supposed 
to have floated, for on hauling up, a fish of the scomber family 
was found entangled ^n a coil, but remarkable, because although 
it was sound and firm, both eyes were nearly closed from the 
nose backwards by a white film or nictating menibrane, and the 
jaws were close' locked so as to open with difficulty. The mem- 
brane surrounding the eyes is common to nearly all the gregarious 
and migratory species and particularly conspicuousin gadoid fishes, 
which have it often much dilated. A Malay seaman on board said 
it was not an uncommon occurrence in the East India seas and that 
it indicated the torpid period of the species, when they do not take 
bait and lurk in depths beyond soundings. I doubt that any 
species of fish can exist in a ' state of activity without t!ie oc- 
casional aid of atmosplieric air,, the account of soundings below 
1,000 fathoms may be doubted, though 2,000 fathoms of line 
niiolit be out. 

FISHES. 233 

fined to spawning, or to feeding upon some particular 
bait or both; among these, the gadoid (codfish) 
and clupeoid (herring) famihes advance from polar 
and temperate latitudes towards the equatorial seas, 
while the mugiloed (mullets) and scomberoid (mack- 
erels) take a contrary direction, from the warm lati- 
tudes towards temperate seas. But all the fish of 
passage, though some feed on mollusca at greater 
depths are necessitated to deposit their spawn from 
soundings of at most forty fathoms to the superfi- 
cial sands and rocks within the tides. Thus far we 
may judge the sun's rays to penetrate with effect, 
not only from the quickening of their eggs, but 
also from the same action upon those of all the other 
species of fish, and of the pullulations of the subor- 
dinate classes of animated beings, excepting, per- 
haps, the zoophytes of some tropical regions, which 
■ commence their calcareous dwellings under a verti- 
cal sun at greater depths and those pelagian animals 
whose spawn floats on the surface,*" while the mi- 
gratory tribes deposit upon the zone of soundings 
just mentioned the germs of their own future brood, 
to be in part devoured by other species, they find 
in their turn the ova and the fry of those species, 
and also the already -matured new generations of 
the subordinate classes, to serve for their own 

Pelagian fish, though many species are gregari- 
ous, are not so clearly migratory as the foregoing, 
they, as the name imports, are residents in the high 
seas, and among them the Scomberodi family 
(mackerels), and particularly the genera Istiophorus, 
(Indian sword-fish), Xiphias (Atlantic sword-fish), 

* It raay be necessary to qualify this observation by remarking 
that in warmer seas, and particularly in tropical waters, some of 
the sedentary species may spawn several fathoms below forty, 
perhaps even as far down as sixty fathoms. Yet almost all the 
tropical percoids deposit their ova about the coral rocks, much 
nearer the surface, and the Spari, Scari, and Labri do not descend 

VOL. V. IBS"). iV 

234 FISHES. 

and Pelamis, (Bonito) Temnodon, and Thynnus 
(Tunny) certainly frequent the superior strata* of 
the waters, and the two last mentioned, with their 
congeners, have partial migrations to the deep sound- 
ings of the west coast of Africa, into the Mediter- 
ranean, the China and Australian Seas. Similar 
kinds of travels are undertaken by some of the 
Exoceti, (Flying fish) ; but Doradoes or CoryphaensB 
(Dolphin of Seamen) the greater species of Squali, 
(Sharks) and Cephatopteri, (Devil rays) come in 
shore from accidental causes only, or in pursuit of 
the migratory armies. There is however, no reason 
to believe, that in all their wanderings, any of these 
species are ever induced to descend to great depths 
for a considerable time ; but finding their food prin- 
cipally near or on the surface of the sea, they con- 
stantly remain about it, and they may be seen, 
occasionally hunting their prey, even in the night. 
The Naucrates (Pilot fish) and parasitical Echeneis 
(Remora) attend the greater cartilaginous genera, 
but it may be doubted whether other acanthop- 
terygian tribes, besides those already mentioned are 
strictly pelagian and venture in the high seas many 
degrees from soundings. There are it is true, several 
Percoides, (of the Perch family) such as Polyprion, 
(Rudder fish) and other genera whose species are 
common to the seas of both hemispheres, pass 
round Africa even into the Red Sea, and eastward 
perhaps beyond the Coast of Ceylon ; but in the 
latter case they are in all probabihty coasters along 
the soundings ; and in the former they make their 
passage across the Atlantic by attending the sea 
weed and some pursue their course by following ships. 

To be continued. 

* With the exception of the com mon Mackerel, I have found 
all fish possessed of brilliant colors and particularly red tints, to 
be habitually superficial, though very often they reside in the 
offings, where there is deep water. The seas with corals, which 
reflect the sun to a great depth, have constantly the greatest variety 
of species possessed of bright and prismatic colors. I question 
whether the common Mackerel retains the iridescent hues after his 
period of activity and when he is in the repose of his deep sea retreats. 




February 26th. — Mr. Swain's Lecture on Poisons. 

The lecturer commenced by observing that there existed many 
peculiarities about the constitution of poisonous substances; that 
many differed in their component parts from nutritious bodies, 
only in the most trifling degree, and enumerated several substances 
in illustration. 

He stated that vegetables often produced poisonous secretions, 
whilst themselves were salutary articles of diet; and vice versa. 
That the poison of the rattle snake was certain death if inserted 
into a wound, but might be swallowed with impunity. 

The lecturer, having dismissed the constitution of poisons, 
commented on their operation. He said that we were unable to 
say in what lay their power of action or how they antagonized the 
vital principle. He briefly described the intestinal canal, adverted 
to its large nervous supply, and stated that there were two theories 
propounded to explain the destructive impression made by poisons 
on the human body. One supposed the actual entrance of the 
substance into the veins, and its actual contact with the brain. 
The second ascribed the operation of poisons to their effect upon 
the sentient extremities of the nerves, which effect was conveyed 
along the nervous trunks to the centre of feeling. 

The lecturer believed that the latter was the correct explanation, 
and illustrated it by diagrams and descriptions, taken from the 
work of Messrs. Morgan and Addison, on poisons. Mr. Swain 
next proceeded to comment on the criminal administration of 
poisons, and on the art of secret poisoning, which, in the early 
times of science, he believed might have been carried to a very 
great extent. He however disbelieved entirely the assertion that 
there existed poisons, which would destroy the victim at any given 
time after their exhibition, at the will of the poisoner. The 
lecturer thought that secret poisoning must be gradual ; and that 
the only way in which it could be effected, was by the use of 
repeated small doses of some deleterious substance. 

Mr. Swain adverted to the Aqua Toffana, so celebrated in 
Italy during the nineteenth century, and thinks that arsenic was 
the principal ingredient. He named other secret poisoners, and 
stated that there existed at the sacred well of Temzem, in Mecca, 
a salaried poisoner, who destroyed any one obnoxious to the 
sultan, by infusing poison in the water of that sacred spring. 

Mr. Swain next commented on such of the poisons as were of 
general interest, from their being resorted to as instruments of 
suicide or murder : — arsenic, prussic acid, and opium were the 


Arsenic, he staled, was very commonly used as a poison. 
Modern chemistry could now detect the presence of the four 
hundredth part of a grain. 

He remarked that prussic acid had been made so strong as^'46 
kill a man when applied to the skin of tlie arm. 

Opium, he stated, was of interest not only as a poison, but also 
as an article of luxury; and stated that 16,000 pounds were 
annually consumed in Great Britain. Its effects on the consti- 
tution, when habitually taken, he said were various, but that in 
general they were of a most fatal character; and in illustration 
cited that singular literary production — *' The Confessions of an 
English Opium Eater:" he strongly recommended the book for 
perusal, as containing many singular facts relative to the pernicious 
practice of opium eating. The Opium Eater took at one time 
the enormous quantity of 320 grains of solid opium per diem. 
Mr. S. said it was consoling to find that such a habit, contracte<l 
by years of practice, and bound on its victim by the most 
powerful links, could at length be relinquished. Mr. Swain 
quoted several passages from the book in illustration of its style. 

Mr. Swain then adverted to the medicinal exhibition of poisonous 
bodies. He stated the healing virtues of many of the most 
deadly of these substances, and showed that we derive many 
blessings from their proper use. 

In conclusion he remarked that poisons are to be regarded in 
their relation, not to a species but to a world, and mentioned the 
fact, that many substances that would poison man are wholesome 
food to other creatures of the animal creation. 

In the course of the lecture, Mr. S. exhibited the stomach pump, 
and explained its application by a diagram. 

Marcu 5th. — Mr. W. Wyatt's Lecture on the Teeth of 

We could not allempt to give an abstract of this paper, with any 
hope of doing so effectively. It contained such a mass of highly 
condensed matter, expressed in language so terse, that it was 
itself a highly finished abstract. The following extracts cannot 
fail to gratify the reader. 

The formation of the teeth takes place in cavities of the jaw 
bones called Alveoli, or sockets. In the foetus, and sometimes 
even as late as at the time of birth, there is instead of these sockets 
^il longitudinal and deep groove occupying a considerable length 
of the jaw. By degrees the bone forms partitions in this groove, 
until at last the sockets are all distinct cavities, open above, and 
lined by a continuation of the periosteum from without. The 
sockets for the permanent teeth are not formed until a later 
period. Each socket contains a membranous capsule the external 
surface of which is firm and vascular, and in contact with the 


periosteum of the socket, but not united to it as some writers 
have asserted. Internally the capsule is delicate, transparent 
and very vascular, and encloses a gelatinous pulp on which the 
tooth is afterwards formed. The internal surface of the capsule 
is in contact with all the upper part of the pulp, and also of the 
crown of the tooth, when it is formed, while within the jaw, so 
that it forms an inverse figure of the surface of the tooth. At 
their base the capsule and pulp are united. There is a curious 
circumstance connected with this capsule, which, I believe, has 
^never before been noticed. It is that at the first, when the pulp 
is at its base, and the tooth has scarcely begun to ascend, the 
capsule receives its supply of blood from its connection with the 
gum, and is consequently most vascular in that direction; but, 
in proportion as the tooth advances tow^ards the point of its exit, 
the vascularity diminishes in its upper part, and it begins to form 
a new connection at the base of the socket, which was before a 
solid thin plate of bone, but at this period is rendered pervious 
to blood-vessels coming from the maxillary canal beneath ; thus 
the tooth is always best supplied in that part which requires most 
blood at the time. Ossification commences at the summit of the 
pulp, the crown of the tooth being formed first ; and when there 
,are several eminences there are an equal number of points at 
which the ossific deposit takes place, but always at the highest 
first* It proceeds in layers, and as each layer is more 
extended than the preceding one, the different points become, by 
degrees, united, the crown is formed, the osseous laminse descend 
towards the neck, and finally the root is hardened, but always 
remains thinner than the upper portions of the tooth. In man 
and all the animals having simple teeth, the root begins to be 
ossified only at the moment when the tooth is ready to issue from 
its socket, which it may be said to do from the greater degree of 
resistance made to its growth by the lower part of that cavity, 
than by the softer parts above. But in the animals with compound 
teeth in which the crown becomes worn by use, the root is not 
commenced for a long period after the tooth has appeared above 
the gums, nor until great part of the crown has been ajready 
abraded. Thus these animals have never an entire tooth. 
Various opinions have prevailed with regard to the manner in 
which the several substances of the tooth are deposited ; and there 
i^ppears to me sufiicient reason for thinking it a much more simple 
process than it has hitherto been supposed. 

The only opinion I have met with, on this subject, which seems 
accordant with truth, is that of Cuvier. He considers that the 
layers of ivory are the result of transudation -rather than of 
ossification, from the facts, of their adhering but very little to 
the pulp underneath, and having no apparent bood-vessels; 
that the enamel is deposited by the internal layer of the capsule 
by a transudation the inverse of that which gives origin to the 
ivory ; and that when the tooth requires cement the same internal 


layer becomes thick, spongy, opaque, and of a reddish colour, in 
order to supply this third substance. Thus, all the different 
substances of the tooth are the products of one and the same 
membrane ; for even the pulp itself is no more than a secretion, 
so to call it, of the vessels at the lower part of the capsule ; and 
that it is not impossible for two or more substances, differing in 
their structure, to be deposited by the same membrane is demon- 
strated by an instance on record of the head of a human thigh 
bone having been found, with a portion of its surface, an inch and 
a half in length and an inch in breadth, covered with highly 
polished enamel, somewhat resembling that of the teeth, More- 
over, tumours have been found in the frontal sinuses of the human 
head, having a perfect resemblance to ivory: and two instances 
of this kind have been met with, and recorded by Sir Everard 

The hare and the rat are animals belonging to the same order, 
Rodentio. The under incisors of the former have a straight 
edge; those of the latter a curved and rather more pointed one. 
Those of the hare are adapted for cutting the tender blades of 
wheat and other vegetables, while the rat's are better suited to 
separate into fine rtolecules the hard substances which it is gene- 
rally destined to feed upon. The common bat and the mole are 
both insectivorous; and have canines which are irregularly 
conical and very large. The angular surfaces of those of the bat 
render it easy for them to penetrate the hard wing covers of the 
coleopterous insects : but the mole has need of a different form 
of teeth to cut or tear softer and more flesh like substances. Its 
under jaw is consequently provided with two canines which 
have posteriorly a sharp edge, and are very much flattened later- 
ally ; so that a transverse section of one of those teeth would 
resemble in form a similar section of a razor. By means of these 
canines the mole skins the common earth worm in an exceedingly 
curious manner, by first slitting the skin from end to end, and 
then squeezing out the contents of it. The horse and the ox are 
frequently seen grazing together in the same pasture. But the 
former animal can also with his flat gTinders tritui-ate hard com, 
as wheat, barley and oats ; and the latter is almost indispensable 
to him, in a domesticated state, at least. On the other hand, the 
irregular surface observable in the molars of the ox renders it 
difficult for him to feed at all on grain. 

All the substances which, in any degree, supply the place of 
teeth are nearly allied to horn, rn their structure. They appear 
in common with that substance, to resemble a mass of agglutinated 
hairs; although in some instances their texture is rather lamin- 
ated than fibrous. Such are the beaks ofthe whole class of birds, 
and of the chelonian division of the class of reptiles, or the 

There is another substance of a similar structure, but perfectly 
anomalous in form, which is the only otmj to be noticed in the ^ 


class Mammalia. This substance is found in the mouths of the 
true whales; whence it has been most improperly called whale- 
bone. It consists of a number of horny laminae, implanted in 
the palate, and descending vertically into the mouth. The supe- 
rior maxillary and palatal bones form, on their lower part, two 
inclined surfaces, giving to the palate an appearance resembling 
the roof of a house reversed. These surfaces are rather con- 
cave, and upon them are placed the laminae of whalebone, in 
parallel lines, and their direction is transverse to the axis of the 
body. They sometimes amount to eight or nine hundred on 
each side of the jaw, and some of them in the Greenland w^hales, 
are more than ten feet in length. They are connected to the 
bones by the intervention of a white ligamentous substance, 
which changes, by imperceptible degrees, into true whalebone. 
Each lamina, interiorly, presents a bed of horny fibres, enclosed 
on each side within a layer of whalebone, which is thinner, more 
firm, and less apparently fibrous than the body of the lamina. 
The fibres issue from between these layers, and form a fringe- 
work, which hangs free from the inferior border of the whalebone; 
so that this fringe garnishes all that part of the palate above the 
tongue. The fibres are not equal in all the whale species ; the 
rorqual having them larger than the Greenland whale, which has 
however by far the longest laminae. These organs do not allow 
whales to feed on such large animals as their size might induce 
us to imagine. They live on fish, but principally on worms, 
mollusca, and zoophytes, selecting, it is said, the very smallest, 
which become entangled in the filaments of the whalebone. 

March 12th. — Rev. J. Webb's Lecture on Capital 

In the commencement of the lecture, a brief survey was« taken of 
the rise and progress of Capital Punishments ; nations in their 
earlier stages of existence were stated to have used them with 
frequency, and often attended with circumstances of aggravated 
cruelty. Their abolition at Rome by the Porcian law, and 
resumption under the emperors, was then adverted to : after which 
the lecturer noticed the influence which the formation, and the 
decay of feudal institutions throughout the kingdom of Europe, 
exercised upon their penal codes : he then traced their history 
down to the close of the last century, at which time he stated 
** that there were in each of the penal codes of England and 
France about 150 offences punishable with death." He then 
proceeded to enquire whether the right to inflict the punishment 
of death existed; and endeavoured to prove that it did not; — 
that it was not Jovnded on the principal of abstract moral justice. 
The lecturer argued that it was impossible for man in his 
judicial capacity to contemplate offences in relation to it — but 
rather that he should "regard them as crimes, not as sins; a$ 


acts opposed to the welfare of society, and not as directed against 
the laws of the Almighty/' 

Nor on the social compact into which men enter, or are supposed 
to enter, when they quit their state of native independence for that 
of society. Although the lecturer deemed this compact as little 
more than a legal fiction, yet, admitting it, he contended that it 
afforded no basis on which to found the right capitally to punish 
— that we could not reason from individual relationship to those 
of society; that it by no means followed, if it were the duty of a 
man, when assailed, to preserve his own life by the sacrifice of 
that of the assailant, that society possessed the right to put the 
murderer to death, since such preservation would not thereby be 
effected . 

Nor on the ground of political expediency. 

The lecturer here enquired whether the punishment of death 
did afford the most effectual means of preventing atrocious 
crimes: — whether penal codes, whose prominent feature should 
be severity, furnished the best safeguard to life and property. 
He maintained they did not, and offered several reasons to prove 
the correctness of the position, which he summed up in the 
following terms: — "We here venture to ask, and with some 
degree of confidence, are penal codes, teeming with capital 
penalties, the remedy of crime? To us they seem rather to 
resemble the nostrum of the empiric, beneficial, possibly, in a few 
cases, from the extreme violence of its operation ; but, from that 
very circumstance, injurious in the greater number. If to 
confound in one heterogeneous mass nearly all varieties of crime 
— if to create great uncertainty relative to punishment — if to 
stimulate unnaturally the sympathies of the virtuous, and raise 
the indiscriminate fury of the ignorant and misguided — if to 
destroy the living epistles of testimony, be well adapted to restrain 
the commission of crime, then do sanguinary codes, and capital 
punishments, admirably answer their end, for these are the 
legitimate results of their infliction, and then we say, let the 
blessing of humanity descend on Draco*s head ; then let the friends 
of truth and social order hail the scafibid as the school of virtue, 
and the halter as the cordon of public morals." The lecturer 
further objected against the punishment of death — that where 
judicial authorities designed it as the severest penalty, it was 
usually tlien least Telt — that just in proportion to the degree of 
virtue a criminal retained, would the weight of the punishment 
be felt — that it prevented his repentance — and that it was often, 
from defects in circumstantial evidence, inflicted on guiltless 

To be concluded in the next. 




PLYMOUTH, JUNE Isr, 1835. 
No. 30.] Price Sixpence. [Vol. V. 


Our engraving this month is an elevation of the 
bridge about to be erected across the Plym, in lieu 
of the former bridge, which has been called from its 
birth to its destruction New Bridge ; our devil, by- 
accident, whipped in the name of Long Bridge, at 
the head of the article in the last number, though 
Long Bridge, as we then shewed, is not to be taken 
down or altered, and will remain the same as it has 
ever been. This new erection is the design of Mr. 
James Green, of Exeter, Civil Engineer, and Surveyor 
of the county bridges in Devon. Some years have 
been occupied in controversy, whether a new erection 
was required at all, whether a mode of widening the 
existing bridge might not be adopted at less expense ; 
whether the new erection if adopted should not be 
of iron, so as to admit of a greater degree of incli- 
nation to the southward than can be obtained by a 
stone structure ; and finally whether the expense of 
such new edifice should be defrayed by the county 
fund, or by the funds of the turnpike. The econo- 
mical party amongst the Devonshire parliament con- 
tending, that a bridge which had answered every 
purpose for the Plymouthians, during a long war, 
in which more communication with the metropolis 
was required than at present, ought still to satisfy 
them, or, if altered at all, should be widened. Or, 
if our population would have a new bridge, they 

VOL. V. — 1835. GG 


should pay for it themselves ; it being, as the econo- 
mists think, more to please the fancy for novelty, 
than from any necessity, that a new edifice was re- 
quired ; happily for the public who have to travel 
over the bridge, which may be now called the Old 
Bridge, the civil engineers, (for Mr. James Rendel 
was also consulted) were of opinion that though the 
old bridge would stand for many years (with the 
exception of the parapet walls) if the foundation 
remained untouched, yet, if, by widening, the facing- 
walls of the bridge were disturbed, which must have 
been done in order to give the bridge the required 
inclination, they would not answer for its stability, 
nor would they recommend it. Thus we escaped a 
patch-work job, which after a few years would have 
ended in its being taken down and a new edifice 
erected. The proposition for an iron structure was 
abandoned, though it would have admitted of a 
more convenient diagonal line across the river than 
a stone bridge is capable of, but a preference was 
shewn for the produce of our own county granite 
and limestone : and as to the expense of it, a com- 
promise was effected, the county paying £700., 
towards it, and the remainder being paid out of the 
Turnpike funds, which the Trustees are by Parlia- 
ment authorized to do. 

This edifice, as is seen in the engraving, is to consist 
of three arches only, the centre arch being 22ft., in 
span, and each of the side arches 20ft. The width 
of road-way over the bridge is to be 24ft., clear of 
the parapets, the old road-way having been 10ft. 
only, and to expand to fifty two feet road-way at 
the western end, giving therefore ample space for one 
carriage passing another at whatever speed they may 
be traveUing. Mr. Green has entirely succeeded 
therefore in procuring for the public a safe and con- 
venient bridge, instead of the dangerous one which 
has hitherto existed there, adapted perhaps to the 
exigencies of the times in which it was erected, when 
such a vehicle as a stage-coach was unknown in this 


part of the kingdom, and when carriages and carts 
of every description were very few, but certainly 
totally unfit for the public convenience in the present 

Mr. William Dwelly, of Plymouth, has contracted 
to build this bridge for the sum of £1,050., it is to 
be completed about Michaelmas next, and is to be 
constructed of fine and close grained limestone.* 
Thus a great public accommodation will be procured 
on this line of road, and will terminate the labours 
of the Trustees of that Turnpike, as far as regards 
bridges ; as they have, without the assistance of the 
county, widened Plympton St. Mary Bridge, and 
built new bridges at Ivy Bridge, Bittaford, and Glaze, 
and with their assistance Lee-mill and now this 
nameless bridge across the Plym. When this work 
is completed and paid for, if other improvements 
are not required, the tolls must be applied to the 
liquidation of a debt of no very large amount, after 
which some reduction of the tolls will take place, to 
do which the trustees have already shewn a dis- 
position by lowering those which were most burthen- 

We connot conclude without repeating a wish that 
this bridge may not be left, by the proper authorities, 
without a name; to call it New Bridge is like calling 
a man John Smith, which every body admits is no 
designation. Names of course should be distinctive 
and at once convey to the enquirer some definite 
thing, and all other names which would have been 
appropriate seeming to be pre-occupied, and there 
being no name given to any bridge in our neighbour- 
hood, bearing our name, we ask to be permitted to 
become its nomenclators in this instance, and to 
name it The Plymouth Bridge. 

* The old bridge is now almost destroyed ; a temporary bridge 
of wood is constructed for persons and vehicles to pass over. 



Thou comest, gentle Zej^hyr, with thy breatli 
Restorative of flow'r, in thy hand 

Holding the primrose pale — 

Thy tresses violet-bound ; 

While tauntingly the drooping first then shew'st 
To ^olus, who speeds him in the train 

Of equinoctial blasts 

For dark Cimmerian holds : 

And welcome is thy visit — welcome more 
If with the cheerful leaf thou gav'st the mind 

The cheerfulness to hail 

Thee guardian of her spring. 

But she must rise and droop ; and well if here 
Her irksome changes closed — ah I rise and droop 

And sensitively share 

All but the vernal cheer ! 

With thee comes Earth's fair, beautiful, and gay ; 
With thee they sport; thou look est thou upon 

And laughest; and they laugh 

Reciprocating joy ! 

Not so the mind, aspirmg, of young song : 
She watches thy descent — marks thy attire 

Brilliant of Iris-hue, 

And gay attendants round ; 

She hears thy quick approach, once musical. 
As thro' the grove and field each slender bough 

Summoned the trem'lous leaves 

To ring enlivening peals. 

But now, alas ! a harsher note is thine — 
Hoarse campanology, as through the shrouds 

Of steepled bark thou climb'st 

To fill th' impatient sail. 

Yet, even here the child of song would joy, 
And_ heed thy grating numbers, if to part 

Were but to part and meet, 

And meet — to part no more ! 


For friendship then were union, broken once ; 
Again united, never more to break ; 

Our loved were home, and home 

Our loved for aye ! 

But Fate, who governs all things, thee controuls ; 
Witii thee our hopes ; in these our pleasures, loves, 

Of little stay or long ; 

And home, which centres all. 

Yet in thy flight, or o'er th' Atlantic wave 
The trackless keel bears one congenial soul, 

Oh ! sigh, " Forget me not," 

That echo may respond — 

But home ne'er mention : this will rise as thou 
Thy vernal visit pay'st, where Arctic hills 

Their icy heads decline. 

Or snowless plains invite : 

For there at ev'ning's close the lowing herds, 
The bleating flocks, the laden humming bee, 

And rustling leaf will sing 

In thrilling accents — Home ! 

Sweet solace this, and sole, to severed friend ; 
Then, gentle Zephyr sigh " Forget me not," 

Till pure affection's spring 

Nor fate nor sea divides. 

J. R. B. 



Every one is familiarly acquainted with the gen- 
eral appearance of hair : its peculiar structure and 
mode of growth have, however, seldom received the 
attention they deserve. Hairs differ remarkably not 
only in their structure, but also in their situation. 
Almost all Mammalia possess hairs more or less 
numerous, not excepting even whales. They are 
found also on different parts of the body in Birds, 


but chiefly about the head and neck. They are 
absent from Reptiles, Fishes, and the Molhisca ; but 
may be observed on many Annulose animals, and 
even Zoophytes, in which they are subservient to 
motion. In these inferior classes, however, they 
appear to be merely filamentous prolongations of 
the cuticle, and subject to all its changes. This is 
certainly the case with the hair which is found on 
many caterpillars, and which separates with the 
cuticle. But true hair is of a more complicated 
structure ; each individual hair being provided with 
a root of a somewhat bulbous form, which is said to 
take its rise in the cellular web : this, however, is 
doubtful. Each bulb consists of a vascular and tu- 
bular portion, and the hair of an external horny 
covering formed of numerous lateral filaments, and 
an internal medulla, or vascular pith. The fila- 
ments of the horny covering are of unequal lengths, 
those nearest the centre being the longest, so that 
the hair assumes the figure of an elongated cone, 
with its base seated in the skin ; this form gives to 
the hair that peculiar property, on which depends 
the operation of felting. But there is considerable 
variation in the form of hairs, in some animals. 
Thus they are frequently thickest in the middle ; 
sometimes flat or two-edged, as on the toes of the 
ornithorhyncus and the common porcupine ; or wa- 
ved on the margins as in the whiskers of seals. 
When the hairs are soft and curled they are termed 
wool ; when straight and stiff, bristles ; and when 
inflexible spines ; and on the porcupine, quills. 
Their texture is, moreover, affected by climate and 
mode of living. Thus in the hog of Siberia and the 
sheep of Iceland they are long and stiff; in the dog 
of Malta, and the cat, rabbit, and goat of Angola, 
fine and silky ; and thin or almost wanting in the 
dog of Guinea, and sheep of Africa. The colour of 
hair exhibits very remarkable differences, and na- 
turalists are at issue as to whether it resides in the 
fluids of the pith, or in the horny covering. It is, 


however, certain that the quills of the porcupine 
present a striated appearance, having alternate bands 
of black and white, while their pith is white ; and 
the spines of the hedgehog are connected to the skin, 
by little colourless bulbs, being themselves brown. 
On the other hand, we must remember that there is 
an intimate connexion between the colour of the hair 
and that of the mucous web, as is observed in spot- 
ted animals. But it is perfectly accordant with rea- 
son to suppose this colour a secretion of the vascular 
portion, and yet capable of being incorporated with 
the horny covering. In most animals hair is renewed 
annually, and in all readily reproduced. It resists 
putrefaction longer than any other animal matter. 

Feathers are, in their mode of growth, situation, 
and purpose, nearly related to hair ; they are peculiar 
to birds, and may be said to consist of the quill, the 
shaft, and the web. The quill arises like hair, 
in the cellular membrane, and perforates the other 
layers by a tubular opening ; it is at first membran- 
ous and filled wath a pulp inclosed in cells, which 
is afterwards absorbed. At the point of union with 
the shaft there is a small hole in the middle of the 
under side. The shaft consists of a cuticular layer 
of matter similar to the substance of the quill ; and 
a central portion, of a white colour, and in texture 
resembling cork or pith ; the outer side is slightly 
convex, the inner nearly flat, with a groove in the 
middle, and tapering to a point at the further extre- 
mity. There is usually a single shaft to each quill ; 
but sometimes two, as in the southern ostrich ; and 
in a young ostrich which had just quitted the egg 
Blumenbach found as many as twenty proceeding 
from a single barrel. The web generally occupies 
both sides of the shaft, and consists of the barbs, 
which lie over each other like the leaves of a book ; 
and in the same manner are the sides of each barb 
furnished with barbules. Feathers vary exceedingly 
in appearance, being in particular parts hairy, in 
others downy. The feathers of nocturnal birds are 


remarked as being peculiarly downy, while those of 
other birds have a more silky appearance. In the 
penguin the wing feathers are like small scales, and 
in the cassowary like porcupines' quills, being des- 
titute of the barbs. In this remarkable appendage 
of the skin every variety of colour presents itself; 
this appears for the most part to be permanent ; but 
it is extraordinary that in some instances, death, 
change of temperature, or even change of food is 
thought to produce a variation of colour. It is a 
curious physiological fact that, in many birds, in 
which the plumage is a distinction of sex, the old 
female is frequently known to assume the plumage 
peculiar to the male. Feathers, like hair, are re- 
newed periodically, and readily reproduced if de- 
stroyed by accident. 

Horns have the same origin as hairs and feathers, 
they may, in fact, be considered as hairs agglutinated 
and forming a hollow cone, but with this remarkable 
difference, that their cavity is filled with a bony 
process of the skull. The fibrous structure of horn 
may be perceived, in many animals, at the base, 
where it unites with the skin ; at this part it receives 
the additions to its growth ; the apex of the cone 
advancing as the increase takes place at the root and 
on the inner surface. The transverse ridges fre- 
quently seen on horns are indications of the different 
layers of growth, and they sometimes correspond in 
number with the years of life. Horns are perma- 
nent in their nature, and when destroyed by accident 
are not reproduced. In some annuals, as the ox, 
the horns are round, while in the sheep, they are 
flat, and form different curvatures according to the 
kind. Those of the antelopes are generally very 
long and nearly straight ; those of the ibex, curved 
backwards. In fact, they are found under the 
greatest variety of shape and size. The horn of the 
rhinoceros differs from those of all other animals,- 
in being situated on the bones of the nose, and in 
having no bony support within it 



My fellow passenger and I were kept on deck last 
night by a story the mate gave us. At sun-set there 
had been a blaze over all the western horizon, that 
shone under its pillar of smoky clouds, as if the 
Cyclops were at work there on the Isle of Aves. 
The night though close was gusty, with large masses 
of rack flitting across the weak crescent in heaven, 
to make that kind of darkness Superstition most 
delights in. The adventure of the Mate's Grego — 
for so the tale he delivered to us may be called, ran 
nearly as follows ; it affords a ludicrous instance of 
the old proverb, that a certain great personage is 
never more busy than in a gale of wind. 

" Several years ago,'' said the narrator, " I was 
second mate in an Irish vessel bound from Monserrat 
to Belfast. It was during the American war, and 
we were going north about ; for though our crew had 
not minded having a brush with one of their private 
craft — we being a letter of marque carrying twelve 
guns — the owners, you know, and the shippers and 
underwriters were another concern. I thought it as 
well have made the strait run as beat about in the 
bad weather we did, and no clear sailing either : only 
two days before the Norge, seventy four, with a 
donkey frigate in company, spoke us, in search of 
that flying fish. Commodore Rogers, they pressed 
three of our best hands. However, the skipper 
avoided St. George's Channel, because of the Yan- 
kees, and by the token one of their sloops, the Argus, 
and a Baltimore clipper, that had the heejs of the 
Cork squadron, and played Davy Jones himself with 
our trade, were taken there about that time. Well 
it was a sharp evening in spring, and I had been in 
the foretop during the second day watch, looking out 
for the land. - Some heavy rain had fallen, and the 
wet sail flapping about me, for we were nearly before 
the wind, made the grego I had on wet enough : 

VOL. V. — 1835. HH 


SO on coming down I told one of the boys to lash it 
on the main stay just abaft the windlass. Having 
stood by while the youngster was doing this, I went 
below and turned into my berth over the cable tier ; 
not being required on deck again, unless all hands 
should be called, until four in the morning. 

I have been at sea, man and boy, for twenty 
years, yet never saw smarter service than 1 thought 
myself in that night. The breeze seemed to freshen 
and we sent down the main-top-gallant yard and then 
the mast, the fore one had been on the booms for a 
fortnight. Then it blew a whole gale of wind ; the 
sails one after another were taken in, until we brought 
her too, under the bare try-sail, and in sheeting this 
home I thought my grego got adrift and went over- 
board to leeward. When the middle watch was 
relieved, there had only been a squall about four 
bells, but the grego was gone sure enough ; and a 
strange story they told me of how it happened. 

The watch, except the man at the helm and another 
looking out forw^ard, went aloft in the squall to reef 
the main top sail ; but before they left the deck a 
rough voice called down for them to get another pull 
at the reef tackle, swearing as how the starboard 
earring was not up by a fathom. Getting on the 
yard, they found a swarthy fellow with large whiskers 
leaning across it with the earring in his hand, swear- 
ing all the while about the reef tackle, and how cold 
it was : although he had on a Flushing trowsers and 
jacket, with my grego over all. What made it 
stranger, the hand next him on the yard could see, 
for he was without shoes, that his left foot held the 
man rope as in a clenched fist. Our people tried to 

get into conversation, by observing how hard it 

had blown lately ; but he only swore in return that 
the earring had parted — and slipped away just as 
the man at the helm saw some one in a grego sliding 
down the back-stay. On replacing the stranded 
rope, they discovered who had been there ; it was 
burnt half through in the marks of his fingers. This 


account the watch gave me, and I believed it ; until 
three months after, I was in the same vessel, we fell 
in with an Irish hooker, and one of her people with 
my grego on : they all declared it that it had been 
given them by the crew of another such brig as our's, 
which they boarded one night, in exchange for 


British adventurers beyond seas, on stating the 
necessities of their case, to our consul in any foreign 
port, may procure themselves a passage in the first 
homeward bound vessel as distressed subjects. One 
of these unfortunates who had been received on board 
the brig at her last port, died yesterday evening. 
He appeared to be quite a youth, and in the last 
stage of decline, but having exhibited much reserve 
on the subject of his story, we only knew him as a 
Londoner, who had served in the Columbian marine, 
where he confessed his having been harshly treated, 
and finally turned on shore at Fredrickstadt in his 
present condition. The poor lad expired during the 
first watch, and just before midnight the Commander 
sent to intimate a wish that I would read the funeral 
service over him ; accordingly I came on deck, and 
found the body already there, sewed up in a ham- 
mock, as usual, with shot attached to the feet in 
order to sink it. The brig was pitching heavily, 
being on a wind with three reefs in the top-sail, and 
throwing up whole sheets of foam over the weather 
bow; they had taken the main-sail off her, but she 
yet heeled so much that every passing wave gurgled 
in under the corpse, as if impatient of its deposit. 
This lay on a grating within the port next before the 
larboard gangway, and whence its usual occupant, 
an eighteen pound cannonade, had been withdrawn 
for the occasion. The people held on, some by the 
lashings of the long boat, whence two or three sheep 
were gazing on the dumb show beneath ; some along 


the main tack that hung, in its raised state, over 
their heads to leeward. A seaman, with a lantern, 
stood above the group of officers near me, on a gun 
under the main rigging, and another by the mast 
close to where I steadied myself, with an arm round 
the fall of the lee-main-topsail-sheet. The crew 
were silent as the dead man : seamen are exemplary 
in this respect, and excepting that the officer of the 
watch crept off now and then to the old quartermaster 
at the wheel, with an occasional securing of our 
positions as the ship reeled into the trough of the sea, 
nothing interrupted the wild dirge that played in 
.gusts aloft. When I reached the clause, " we there- 
fore commit his body to the deep, to be turned into 
corruption," the grating suddenly disappeared, and 
long before it could be hauled in again, the distressed 
subject had gone down into his unfathomable grave. 
To avoid detention under the quarantine laws, the 
crew were employed next morning in fumigating the 
lower-deck, sprinkling the brig with vinegar, and 
casting over what little apparel the deceased had 
left. Among these we found what threw an interest, 
not any additional light over the poor lad's narrative : 
it was a girl's portrait, wrapp€d in the fragments of 
a half obliterated letter, the words, as far as these 
might be decyphered, tended to confirm our previ- 
ously conceived ideas of him. It ran in wildly 
enthusiastic terms, fostering a hope he seemed to 
entertain of acquiring wealth and fortune among the 
patriots of South America — they had brought him to 
what we had seen. But the picture was still smiling 
as before, in serene unconsciousness of the reverse, 
and looking every thing that is pure, and lovely, and 
exalted, and hallowed, and calm. 



March 12th. — Rev. J. Webb's Lecture on Capital 


Concluded from page 240. 

The lecturer closed by adverting to those methods which, in his 
opinion, were best calculated to restrain the commission of crime, 
and which were not found, he thought, in frequency of pardon — 
transportation — horrible punishments, such as torture, the brand, 
&c. ; but in the extension of the principle of pecuniary fines — 
in the introduction of a superior method of prison discipline — 
in affording employment to all classes — multiplying the social 
comforts of the poor — raising the tone of national morals — and in 
a system of national education, moral and religious in its nature, 
and founded on broad and liberal principles. To these means 
he hoped the humane and the benevolent would devote their 
attention, and finished his paper by reminding such, that by 
promoting these objects, they were, in effect, revising our penal 
code, and abolishing capital punishments. 

March 19th. — Mr. W. S. Harris' Lecture on the Laws of 
Electrical Attraction. 

The principal object of this lecture was to examine whether or not 
the law of electrical attraction was an elementary law of nature. 

Before proceeding directly to the investigation, the lecturer 
gave a definition of what he considered an elementary law, namely, 
that it was that in which cause and effect increasing' or decreasing 
were always commensurate with each other; and he stated it as 
his conviction that, where the effect increased in a higher ratio 
than the cause, such for instance as in the proportion of the 
square, the law may be generally resolved into the combined 
action of two or more simpler laws. The lecturer then, for the 
benefit of those who had not before witnessed them, repeated a 
few experiments, in order to explain the manner in which elec- 
trical attraction operated, and then went on to explain the reason 
why the increase of electrical attraction is as the square of the 
diminished distance at which it operates. 

On the theory which supposes electrical effects to result from 
the power exerted by the electric fluid to regain its original state 
of distribution after any temporary derangment of it, all those 


bodies which have experienced any such a change in their electrical 
states exert an attractive influence upon indifferent matter which 
is found to increase in the proportion of the square either of the 
increased change, or of the diminished distance at which any 
determinate change operates; to account for this apparently 
disproportionate increase of effect, the lecturer took into account 
the effect of induction, which would be quite sufficient to account 
for it. When an electrified body is opposed to an unelectrified 
body, at any fixed distance, attraction is immediately apparent; 
if the distance be diminished one half, it might be expected that 
the attractive force would only be doubled ; this he shewed would 
be pretty nearly the case, provided the attracted body were of 
small dimensions, and perfectly insulated ; but when it was of 
any considerable size, half the distance produced four times the 
effect, one third the distance nine times the effect, &c. It is a 
law of electricity that all bodies, whether in a positive or negative 
state, will attract bodies of an opposite state with more power 
than those which are perfectly neutral ; and when an electrified 
body is opposed to a neutral body of a considerable size, its first 
effect is to induce in that portion nearest to itself an electricity 
opposite to that with which it is itself charged : for example — if 
it be positive, it drives the natural electricity of the opposed 
conductor into its extreme end, and thereby rendering the proxi- 
mate surface negative, prepares for itself as it were a suitable 
reception. The two bodies then attract each other with a given 
force; now if the substance between these be diminished one half 
the attraction of the electrified conductor would be doubled, if 
acting on perfectly neutral matter; but the inductive effect 
produced by this approximation would be doubled on the unelec- 
trified conductor, which would consequently also attract with 
twice the force; hence, the amount of the attraction between the 
two bodies would be 2, multiplied by 2,=4 ; again, if the distance 
be diminished to one third, the attractive power of the electrified 
conductor would be increased three times ; but the inductive 
effect being also trebled, the opposed conductor would also 
attract with three times the force, consequently the amount of 
attraction will be 3 multiplied by 3,=9, the square of the 
increased elementary power; thus, it was evident that this phe- 
nomenon was not an elementary law, but resulted merely from 
an increase of the attractive power acting on neutral matter, 
but upon a superinduced attractive power of an opposite kind, 
and equally powerful. 



March 26th. — Reports on Science. 

Circumstances having prevented the delivery of the Scientific 
Reports, at the commencement of the Season, they w^ere laid 
before the Society this evening. Mr. Harris confined his report 
chiefly to Electro Chemical Science, and explained some of the 
most remarkable additions v^rhich had been made to it by the re-^ 
searches of Faraday and others : after explaining some of the. 
elementary principles of Electro Magnetism, he traced it up to 
its present state, and exhibited to the Society the Apparatus em- 
ployed for the production of the electrical spark from copper 
wires, surrounding a mass of iron, operated upon by magnetic 
induction alone ; after which — 

Mr. Prideaux commenced by stating the impossibility of com- 
pressing for the occasion, any thing like a report of all the recent 
discoveries in a science so multifarious as Chemistry, it would 
therefore be confined to such of them as were of some general in- 
terest; leaving the enquiry into any of the more confined ones 
for the discussion. The reporter then read a list of them,., which 
we cannot pretend to repeat ; and can only observe upon it, that 
the technical language of Chemistry sounded like no tongue that 
ever was uttered before, and strangely illustrated the effect of 
compounding names from two or three dead languages together. 

The first subject reported on was, a mode of measuring light, 
which was illustrated by reference to the most successful methods 
previously in use. These were Count Rumford's, by the com- 
parative intensity of shadows ; and Sir J. Leslie's, by the differ- 
ential thermometer. The difficulties attending the first of these 
were shewn in the case of lights differing greatly in intensity, 
and still more in that of differently coloured lights. Sir J. 
Leslie's instrument was stated to be differently affected by lights 
of equal intensity, when of different temperatures, and to indi- 
cate no light at all from the moon. 

By the new instrument, the invention of Mr. Talbot, M.P., 
some of these difficulties were surmounted. It consists of two discs 
of card or any other thin material, divided into 24 equal parts, 
and alternate divisions cut out, like a spoke wheel; these 
being set on the axle of a multiplying wheel, and fixed together 
so that the spokes of one coincided with those of the other : on 
being put into rapid motion intercepted, of course, half the rays 
of a lamp placed behind. When the spokes of one were placed 
against the intervals of the other, no light could pass, and of 


course, by opening the intervals more or less, any required pro- 
portion of the light could be cut off, and measured by compari- 
son with a given standard : this would apply to lights of any 
degree of intensity, or of any temperature, but still seemed sub- 
ject to difficulty in case of lights much different in colour. 

Professor Graham's researches on the diffusion of gases, formed 
the second subject of the report. It was shewn, that a tube 
about a foot long, the upper end plugged with plaster of Paris, 
being filled with hydrogen gas, the gas made its way through the 
plug, so that the water rose quickly in the tube, four or five in- 
ches above its level in the trough, the contrary effect resulted 
with carbonic acid, but the tube broke before it was shewn. 
The principle was stated to apply to all gases ; those which were 
lighter than air, escaping faster than the atmospheric air took 
their place, and the water consequently rising in the tube, above 
the level in the trough : those which were heavier than air, pass- 
ing off slower than the air entered, and the water falling lower in 
the tube than its level without, and the rate of diffusion proved 
to be, for each gas, inversely proportional to the square root of 
its density. 

Isomerism, or identity in composition of bodies differing in 
physical and chemical properties, was the next subject. 

The nature of definite proportions was illustrated, by mix- 
ing a solution of 60 grains of potass, with a solution of 83 
grains of tartaric acid ; the result being a soluble neutral^alt, and 
the liquor remaining clear. Another equal portion of tartaric 
acid being then added, bitartrate of potass, or cream of tartar 
resulted; which being much less soluble, immediately made the 
liquid dense and fell in a copious precipitate. The same law 
was shown to hold good, in double decomposition, of acetate of 
lead by sulphate of copper : and from these and other illustrations, 
was deduced the atomic theory. 

It was then shewn, that many substances of considerably 
different properties, were not only composed of the same ingre- 
dients ; but also in the same atomic proportions ; thus shewing 
that remarkable differences may be produced by mere difference 
of arrangement of the same atoms ; and it is yet quite uncertain 
to what extent this may go. 

The only remaining subject of the report was isomorphism, a 
sort of counterpart of the last ; for as that related to substances 
differing in properties, but identical in composition, so this be- 
longs to bodies identical in crystalline form, but different in 


composition. Crystalline cleavage was illustrated by carbonate 
of lime, which divided into rhomboids, and this division might be 
continued, at precisely the same angles, and at these only, down 
to the most minute particle, and this was shewn to be an universal 
property, extending through the whole range of mineralogy ; and 
in fact through crystallography of all kinds ; and that by the 
angles thus developed, substances may, with certainty, be distin- 
guished one from another. 

But it appeared that carbonate of magnesia gave the same 
angles as carbonate of lime ; and that the very same result also 
from the cleavage of carbonate of iron, and of carbonate of lead. 
Hence that these substances might not only be confounded together 
judging from their angles of cleavage; but that they do actually 
crystallize together promiscuously : and the same property was 
shown to hold in a great number of other instances. 

Some experiments made by Mr. Hearder, on combustion in 
vacuo, previously before the Society, were also alluded to, to shew, 
that in Chemistry, as well as in other branches of knowledge, the 
Plymouth Institution was endeavouring to contribute its mite, 
towards the general advancement of Science : and the reporter 
expressed strong hopes that the coming year would do more for 
its reputation than any preceding one. 


The mate had been looking out with a spyglass, and observed a 
sail to windward. 

" Jump aloft, one of you who has good eyes, and tell me what 
you make out of that craft with the suspicious rake in her masts, 
on our weather bow ! *' 

"Ay, ay, sir! '* they again sung out, in full chorus; and away 
several scampered up the shrouds, pell-mell. Among the rest 
was perceived the slight figure of the lad, who ascended with 
remarkable agility, and left the others far behind. The mate 
could scarcely credit what he saw, and gazed aloft in amazement. 

" Maintopgallant, there ! " hailed the mate. 

"• Ay, ay, sir!" replied Isaac, in as gruff a voice as he could 
muster for the occasion. 

" What sort of craft is that to windward, — and how is she 
standing ? " 

VOL. V. — 1835. II 


" It is a small black schooner, all legs and arms," replied Mr. 
Maintopgallant ; " and she is bearing down for us under a press 
of sail ! Now she runs up a flag, which you can make out from 
tiie deck with the glass ; and, by the flash and the smoke she 
makes, she has just fired a gun ! " 

Presently a dull, heavy report came booming on the breeze, and 
a thundering sound echoed against the side of the ship. The 
glass was bent upon the approaching schooner, whose hull had 
not yet entirely risen out of the water. Her flag was found to 
be French ! 

" Steward — call the captain ! *' cried tlie mate, in alarm : 
** Forward, there ! — call all hands on deck — stand by to put the 
ship about! " 

** Ay, ay, sir ! " echoed along the deck, and every sailor stood 
ready at his post for prompt action. 

Sethand Jethro now appeared on deck, wondering not a little 
at the uncommon stir on board, and surprised to find every man 
ready, whenever the word should be given, to put the ship on a 
new direction. 

"What does all this mean, mate?*' demanded the captain; 
" why would'st thou change the course of the ship? '^ 

" I did not intend to do so without your concurrence," replied- 
the mate; " but I thought it best to have every thing ready for 
prompt manoeuvring. VVe have a suspicious-looking sail on our 
weather-bow, and she shows French colors. By the rake of her 
masts, I should not be surprised to find her a clipper, with a 
long-tom amidships; for she has given us a gun already." 

" Rather a dangerous neighbour for us, surely," said the cap- 
tain, '* especially if she should prove one of those piratical rascals 
that sometimes cut up our commerce. Keep her away, and see 
if she follows us," continued he lowering the point of his glass. 

Away went the Grampus with a free wind, snorting, as it were 
like a race-horse, and ploughing handsomely through the seas 
on her altered way. 

The Frenchman steered for, and gained gradually and steadily 
upon, the Grampus ; and the event was most anxiously looked 
for by all on board. The ship, deeply laden as she was with oil, 
was of great value, and, as Seth thought, eminently worth pre- 
serving. But the Frenchmen were determined she sliould change 
owners, — for tliey managed their little craft with great skill, and 
altered their course in chase, whenever Macy changed his. The 
breeze was brisk, and suited the schooner to a crack ; while the 


laden ship, though the fleetest of her class, could not show her 
heek to advantage, witliout a stronger wind. Macy tried his 
vessel upon every tack — but escape was impossible — the wedge- 
like schooner gained upon him at every turn. 

"Now would I give the half of our cargo,'* said Macy, "for a 
few guns to speak to that saucy little scamp in his own language ! '' 
And then turning to Jethro, he said, rather bitterly, " Dost thou 
remember, friend Coffin, what I told thee about the six-pounders, 
before we left port? I fear thou wilt pay dearly enough for not 
taking my advice. There comes salute number two ! '' 

A gun at that moment was fired from the Frenchman, across 
the bow of the Grampus ; but the shot weiit wide, and "vyas most 
probably intended merely as a warning to heave to. Seth paced 
the deck in great agony of spirit, muttering, as he went, words 
that sounded very much like '^ damnation^'' and the like. The 
sound may have been equivocal to the ear of Jethro, for he 
forebore to put in his usual caution of " Swear not at allf^^ as 
he was wont to do, whenever Captain Seth used obnoxious 

The Grampus was now kept off two or three points, and a 
foretopmast-studdingsail was about being set ; but, in the hurry 
of the moment, by some mishap the tack got unrove. A couple 
of hands were ordered aloft to rig in the boom, and reeve the 
tack anew. In an instant little Isaac, who had heard the order, 
put the end of the rope between his teeth, ran up the fore-shrouds, 
crept out on the top of the fore-yard like a monkey, and then out 
upon the bare boom. But, before he had accomplished his task, 
the Frenchmen brought their long-torn, charged with small shot, 
to bear upon the yard, and let drive at Isaac ; thinking, probably 
that his labour might be the means of enabling the Grampus to 
escape. The little fellow was not disconcerted by this terrible 
salute, although the balls whistled like hail around him. He 
fearlessly and deliberately went on with his work. 

"They are again charging the gun!'' shouted English Bill. 
" Come down, my boy ! — Creep in ! Creep in ! Seize one of the 
halliards, and let yourself down with a run ! " 

"Ay, ay," cried Isaac, as he finished reeving the tack. He 
then quickly gathered a few fathoms in his hand, threw the coil 
down upon the forecastle, and the sail was immediately hoisted. 
The long-torn was again elevated, and the gunner was in the act 
of applying the match ; but Isaac stopped not for the additional 
peppering ; 


" The cords ran swiftly through his glowing hands, 
And, quick as lightning, on the deck he stands ! " 

" Hah ! — my little younker ! — my eyes, but your a brave *un 
— You '11 be an Admiral yet — d* ye see ! " exclaimed English 
Bill, as he joyfully hugged the stripling in his brawny arms. 

The prediction of BiH rang in the ears of Isaac for many a 
year afterwards. It was like the prophetic sound of the bells to 
the hearing of Whittington : — 

" Turn again, Whittington — 
Lord Mayor of great London." 

^ The hasty strides of Seth were again arrested by another shot, 
which passed through the sail over his head. He folded his arms 
— looked up at the rent sail — and drew up his form, as if some 
new purpose had taken possession of his despairing mind. 

" By heaven ! " said he, " I will not part with so fine a ship 
and cargo, without a deadly struggle ! " 

" Swear not! " said Jethro; " it will not help us in our strait. 
We may better yield quietly to the necessity. Put down thy helm 
Seth, and bring the ship to." 

" Yield quietly ! — didst thou say ? — and did 1 understand thee 
aright, when thou bid me to bring the ship to?" The eyes of 
Seth glared wildly upon Jethro, and his nostrils distended like 
those of an infuriated wild bull at bay. " Put down the helm, 
indeed ! — Pray, neighbour Jethro, who is the commander of the 
Grampus — thou or I ? '' demanded Seth, in high dudgeon. But 
he evidently availed himself of the first pretext to let off his anger, 
for he was waxing exceeding wroth. 

Jethro answered calmly, — " Thou, surely, art her captain — and 
I yield all to thy discretion. Save the ship, if thou canst; — but 
thou canst not. We have no means of defence, and, if we had, it 
would not be justifiable to oppose with arms." 

"Jethro ! My resolution is taken : — I will save this ship, or 
sink in her. What ! yield to that little gadfly — that gallinipper 
— that is scarcely larger than our longboat ! " 

Another shot, better directed than the other, splintered a piece 
from the mainmast, and wounded one of the crew. 

" There, Jethro ! there are some of the tender mercies of the 
French pirate, and an earnest of what we may all expect, if 
taken ! " 

*' Yield thee, Selh, yield thee! The longer thou dost delay, 
so much the more hazard to tlie lives of the people." 


^*Thou hadst better go below, Jethro — 1 must command here. 
Yield, indeed ! the ship sliall sink first ! '' muttered Seth, as 
Jethro began to descend. 

" Stand by there, men ! " shouted the captain, in a voice that 
made every sailor start. It was evident to all that Seth had put 
off the Quaker, and that prompt obedience was necessary. 

" Get the longboat ready to be launched at a moment*s warning 
— clear away the quarter boats — and see all clear to lower them 
in an instant. Mate, take in all the small sails quickly ! " 

The manner of Seth, was somewhat wild, but resolute and 
determined; and the men and officers having done his behest, 
.stood wondering what command would next be issued, and 
whereunto those would tend that had already been executed. 
The Frenchman was also at fault; for, mistaking the manoeuvring 
of Seth for an intention to give up his ship, the schooner was 
hove to, and seemed to await the lowering of the boat from the 
quarter of the Grampus — even as the conqueror awaits the 
approach of an enemy subdued, who comes to yield up his sword. 
In rounding to, the schooner had given the advantage of the wind 
to the ship ; and while the French crew stood agape at the man- 
agement of the larger vessel, which they already looked upon as 
a prize, Seth seized upon the helm with his brawny hand. The 
men, scarcely needing the cautioning word, anticipated his 
intention as he put the helm hard up, and gave his impressive 
shout in a suppressed and peculiar tone, which was heard dis- 
tinctly from stem to stern : — 

" Let go all the braces and bowlines, slack off sheets and tacks, 
and square the yards quickly ! " This was all done in the twink- 
ling of an eye, and Seth shaped his course as though he would 
bring his ship under the lee-quarter of the privateer. 

After making this demonstration, which was intended to 
deceive the enemy, her direction was suddenly changed, and her 
head was brought to bear directly upon the hull of the French- 
man ! The crew of the schooner now discovered, but too late, 
the design of the Grampus; and confusion and dire amazement 
agitated the people upon her crowded deck. In their haste to 
remedy their oversight, the Frenchmen failed altogether to avert 
the threatened disaster. 

"If thou dost intend to rup her down," said Jethro to Seth, 
hurriedly, projecting his head for a moment from the cabin gang- 
way, '' if— nay, hear me, Seth, for tlie sake of humanity — if thou 


art determined to run her down, ease thy helm a little, ^nd give 
them a chance for their lives. " 

" Stand by to lower the boats ; " vociferated Seth, stamping 
furiously upon the deck. A suppressed groan of horror escaped 
the crew, as they now more plainly conceived the design of their 

" The boldest held his breath for a time ! " 

The little schooner still lay to, in the trough of a deep sea, her 
people running backwards and forwards in frightened confusion, 
while the huge bulk of the Grampus mounted the last high wave 
that separated the two vessels. 

" Miser icorde ! " exclaimed a hundred voices. 

A wild scream of despair — heard far above the noise of the 
element, and the dashing of the ship — burst from the poor doomed 

Down came the Grampus, thundering upon the privateer, and 
striking her with her plunging bow directly amidships. The 
frail schooner was cut directly in two by the shock ; and her 
heavy armament, together with the irresistible force of the severing 
blow, bore both parts of her hull, with all her ill-fated crew of a 
hundred souls, beneath the wave. 

" Down with the boats from the quarter — launch the longboat" — 
shouted Seth. But the command, though it could not have been 
uttered nor executed sooner with safety, came too late. The aim 
of Seth had been too fatally sure. The boats reached tlie spot, 
and narrowly escaped being sucked into the vortex where the 
schooner had gone down. The French crew were all sent to their 
long account ; and the next wave left not a trace of the wreck, 
nor a solilary human being to be saved from a watery death. 

Thy ship and cargo were dearly ransomed, Jethro Coffin : and, 
Seth, thou didst sacrifice a hecatomb of human beings for thy 



The formation of literary and scientific societies has. long been 
considered one of the surest tests of the growing civilization of 
an empire, and the only standard by which we can judge of the 
intellectual enlightenment and purity of the age; for when once 
the waters of knowledge have thoroughly saturated the soils 
through which they pass, richness and fertility spring from their 
washings, and boundless is the harvest of mind produced by their 
wholesome and refreshing irrigations. Upon this score, England 
owes a debt of gratitude to the names of Brougham, and Birk- 
beck, which she never can repay, a debt, which ignorance owes 
to those who have opened *^ the eyes of the blind," and dispelled 
the mist of darkness from those beings, who have too long resem- 
bled boys peeping out upon the light, by means of two small 
orifices perforated through a shell, and fastened by a string around 
their heads, and over their eyes : but the bandage and the shell 
have been removed, and happily for the world, and ourselves, 
knowledge plays in full streams of light upon the optic nerves of 
millions ; and the names of their benefactors are, we believe, en- 
graven on their hearts. The Plymouth Mechanics' Institute has 
been founded for some years ; but the members of that Institute, 
with a want of foresight, much to be regretted, incurred a debt of 
£800., for the erection of their building, which is still standing 
against them. This was a defective system of proceedure, for 
these reasons. Firstly — it displayed a singular want of caution : 
Secondly. — They had no right to contract a debt, which they had 
not the power to meet. Thirdly — The burden of this amount, 
which is still pressing on their shoulders, has taken from them 
that freedom and independence of spirit, which every body of 
men (whether civil or scientific) ought to exercise. Fourthly. — 
By paying a small annual rental for the use of rooms, they might 
have avoided their present distress, besides having (like the 
Devonport Institute) a surplus sum of money, or balance in hand 
to have answered needful, or contingent expenses. Fifthly. — 
With this surplus cash they might have purchased scientific 
apparatus. Disquisitions on mechanics, &c. These precautions 
would have prevented all those awkward consequences, the force 
of which they now feel; and have placed their Institute on a 
proud and flourishing position. We have discussed these finan- 
cial arrangements, and we beg to review cursorily -the internal 
policy of our neighbouring Institutions. Now, we conceive, that 


novels, romances, and works of a similar class and character 
have no business in a Mechanics* Institute ; that they w^eaken 
the reasoning powers, and inflame the imagination ; that the 
principles developed in those works are for the most part pesti- 
lential and injurious to the morals of Oie young, and calculated 
to dwarf and stunt the growth of a vigorous understanding : 
because, after the tender mind has once become well impreg- 
nated with such absurdities, it is but rarely that it can be led 
back to relish more manly and rational pursuits ; and again, the 
introduction of such books is certainly alien to the ends for'which 
such Institutions were erected, and entirely opposed to the 
creation of an enlarged and philosophical spirit of enquiry. The 
rage for sentimental trash and love-fictions has for too long a period 
reflected discredit on the Devonport Institute ; but many of the 
junior members, having become aware of their weakening influence 
on the mind, have enlisted themselves into a chemical class for 
the purpose of reading their own original essays, and then can- 
vassing their contents. Still, amidst all these defects, the tide of 
mental improvement is rolling on with astonishing force, and a 
quotation from Laplace's "Exposition du Systbme du Monde " 
seems to me admirably adapted to the times in which we live. — 
** Car r empire lent, mais irresistible de la raison, V emporte, k 
la longue, sur les jalousies nationales et sur les obstacles qui 
s' opposent an bien d' une utilite generalement sentie.*' " For 
the empire of reason, slow but irresistible, prevails at last over 
national jealousies, and all the obstacles which are opposed to 
the good of a utility generally felt." 

The results of knowledge, however slow, are always certain; 
always beneficial; for knowledge possesses within itself, like 
steam, almost unlimited powers of expansion, insinuating itself in- 
to every pore and crevice of the community, diminshing ignorance 
in her most varied and brutal forms, humanizing by its progress 
the most obstinate prejudices, softening those passions of our 
nature, whose rankness if not stopped, would prove horribly 
destructive, and elevating the moral character of man, to a nearer 
and closer resemblance of the beautiful image of his Creator. 

M. A. P. 



Continued from page 229. 

It would be certainly assuming too much, to assert 
that, the truly pelagian fish excepted, no other spe- 
cies cross the ocean without the guidance of those 
aquatic plants known by the vulgar name of the gulf 
weed and among which the Fucus natans, L. is 
probably the most conspicuous ; but certain it is that 
numerous gelatinous animals, small mollusca, scyllsea 
and pelagic crabs, together with the fry of different 
species of fish, harbour in this weed, wherever it is 
taken up and examined. In steering towards the 
Equator, it is usually first observed in fields and 
islands on the surface of the sea, south of Madeira, 
and if we take this place for a point of departure, the 
trade winds convey it along with the current towards 
the north point of South America, whence a part is 
drawn into the Canibean Sea, and Gulf of Mexico ; 
after sweeping round the shores, it escapes again by 
the Straits of the Gulf of Florida, in a north-eastern 
direction with the stream, till the north-westerly 
winds and the arctic currents conjointly carry the 
weed eastward towards the Azores, from whence, 
tropical evaporation draws it again southward to 
recommence the same gyration."^ There is a simi- 
larly revolving current, south of the Equator, bearing 
the game kinds of marine vegetation and their con-* 
comitant inhabitants, but much more scattered, and 

*Doctor Leach, in M.S.S., enumerates several genera of Mala- 
costraca, &c., which Mr. Cranch took from these plants. Some 
of them are now published in the Transactions of the Plymouth 
Society. I have myself found amon^ other species an Albula 
(mullus) Plumieriand small Serrani off Trinidad entangled in this 
weed. It was no doubt an immense field of fucus natans which 
impeded tlie progress of the Carthaginians, on their expedition of 
discovery along the West coast of Africa; and the same plant 
also caused great uneasiness to the crews of Columbus's ships, 
though it could not have been new to them as it is not unfre- 
quently cast ashore on the coast of Spain. 

VOL. V. — 1835. KK 

266 FISHES. 

reverting only in part towards the Cape of Good 
Hope, while the rest may reach entirely across the 
Indian Ocean, float alternately in the direction of 
the monsoons, or, passing up the straits of the great 
Islands of Southern Asia, ascend northward till it 
congregates in the Japan Seas, where it has been 
observed to be particularly abundant. The Pacific 
Ocean has, besides, a great variety of other vege- 
table substances floating with the winds and cur- 
rents ; and beneath the equatorial line, in the region 
of frequent calms, vast streaks of peculiar colors often 
occupy spaces of more than a degree in longitude, 
indicating the surface of the sea to be covered with 
fish spawn and with infinite multitudes of medusae 
and other free acalephae, which have in those latitudes 
the centre of their existence. It may perhaps be 
worth remarking, that a chain of soundings is said 
to exist across the Atlantic, from continent to conti- 
nent, near the Equator ; certain it is that the Islands 
of St. Helena, Ascension, Martin Vas, and Fernando 
de Noronha are frequented by species of fish known 
on the Coast of Africa or America or on both. 

Although the number of species of fishes clearly 
proved to visit both continents be not considerable, 
and fewer reach the Indian Ocean, still various ser- 
rani, species of Rypticus, poly prion, trichiurus,belone, 
hemiramphus, &c., are common to the soundings of 
America as well as of Africa and Europe ; and tribes 
of caranx, seriolus, centronotus, scomber esox, and 
sphyraena, are seen not alone about the floating 
weed, but in much greater number in the track of 
the medusae, where they as well as troops of pelamis, 
thynnus and temnodon are accused of acquiring the 
noxious property which poisons the unwary seamen, 
and is known by the name of the Ichthyc venom. 

The larger and more voracious species of shark 
are known to wander through every sea between the 
Arctic and Antarctic circles, seemingly but little 
affected by the difference of temperature of the 
water ; thus Squalus Cornubirus first observed on the 

FISHES. 267 

Coast of Cornwall is now found to be most abundant 
in the seas around New Holland. Flying fish 
(Exocoetus), flying gurnards (Dactylopterus), and 
flying scorpions or fire fish (Pterois), affect tropical 
seas, and the first mentioned alone spreads over the 
warmer temperate regions, though there are known 
about six species of Exocoetus, both those frequenting 
the Mediterranean are also seen in the Pacific and 
American Seas ; and wherever flying fish are found, 
Coryphense (the dolphins of Seamen) are sure to 
follow them. 

Towards the polar circles, but more particularly 
in the temperate latitudes of both hemispheres, there 
are periodical extensions of residence among the 
coasting species, regulated by the course of the sun 
towards either side of the tropics. It is particularly 
observable, where a great current sets from a warm 
towards a cold latitude ; as in the gulf stream of 
' Florida ; where the tepid waters only partially de- 
positing their alluvial matter on the Bahamas, rush 
onward, till they are checked by the counter current 
of the St. Lawrence and the icy influx from the Pole, 
and form, with the deposits of all the eastern rivers 
of the United States, the sandy precipitation of the 
banks of Newfoundland. The tropical fishes carried 
along in this current, without sensible diminution of 
temperature, divide nevertheless at the first men- 
tioned deposit (Bahamas), where the coasting species 
and those which frequent soundings remain ; while 
the truely pelagic Thynnus, Caranx, Temnodon, 
the Squali and even Exocetus, proceed to the se- 
cond, where they are met by the polar colonies of 
Gadi and Clupese, and encounter the resident Pleu- 
ronectes'^, also with the summer season the species 

* I have witnessed the taking of a flying fish on the 23d. Sep- 
tember, 1816, on the same day that we passed two icebergs, 
at no great distance from the island of Sable, near Halifax. The 
summer progress of the tropical fish, by this current, may also 
induce an occasional phaeton to pursue them, I have figured 
the variety of P. (I'Ahereus, or rather a new species in Griffith's 
"Animal Kingdom," from one sliot off New York. 

268 FISHES. 

of Mugil, Thynnus, and Exocetus pass up the 
Mediterranean and return in autumn. With the sun 
to the Northward, Percoid and Sparroid fishes, Ser- 
rani, Lampris, &c., aided by that portion of the 
current which sets in upon the coast of Spain, and 
thence sweeps round the Bay of Biscay, they ranoe 
along the soundings, not unfrequently as far as the 
islands in the British Channel. Some of the same 
species are found during the opposite season, pene- 
trating south to beyond the Cape of Good Hope, 
where they are turned back by the south-east mon- 
soon and the receding sun, among these the mullet 
tribes frequenting the Mediterranean are remarkably 
conspicuous on the south coast of Africa. 

On the eastern shores of America similar pheno- 
mena occur : the migratory species which as we have 
seen cross the Atlantic in the track of the gulf weed, 
recross it atrain by following the same guides or by 
being carried in the currents already noticed : those 
which pass to the northward, occasionally visiting 
the coast of Cornwall ; while such as reach the 
easternmost point of South America, south of Trini- 
dad, gradually pass along the coast to the south-west 
and follow the current which here passes in that di- 
rection to a much higher latitude, perhaps beyond 
the Falkland Islands, before the south-west winds 
and the Austi-al influx of frigid waters fully operate 
upon it, hence the tropical species of fish, at least 
during the antarctic summer, spread further south 
than on the arctic side of the globe, and it appears 
that the numerous tribes of gadoid fishes, the ge- 
nera of Murlucius, Blennius, &c., of the Magellanic 
Straits do not approach so near the warm latitudes, 
by several degrees, as their corresponding species 
do on the arctic side, which come down to the De- 
laware in America, and to the coast of Spain in 
Europe. It may also be inferred from the absence 
of the gadoid oenera on the coasts of Van Dieman's 
Land and New Zealand, that the antartic Pole has no 
continent nor great island in that direction. 
To be concluded in our next. 




A highly ingenious mode of applying Steam to the 
purpose of Dyeing, may be seen at the establish- 
ment of Mr. Dawe, Navy Row, Morice Town, and 
as it is the only thing of the kind in the West of 
England, it will be found well worthy the inspec- 
tion of the curious. Mr. Dawe, the proprietor and 
inventor of the apparatus, is always willing to gratify 
any visitor, by accompanying him through the dif- 
ferent apartments of his dye-house. 

In the lowest story of the dye-house, a steam 
generating boiler has been fitted up : from the up- 
per part of this boiler arises, in a vertical direction, 
an iron main pipe ; with this is connected another 
pipe, nearly as large in bore as the former, which 
passes in a horizontal direction along two sides of 
the apartment. From the last mentioned pipe, se- 
veral smaller ones descend into copper baths, con- 
taining various dyes, each of these smaller pipes is 
provided with a stop cock, by means of which a 
current of steam, greater or less, may be always 
passed through any of the baths of dye, or through 
the whole of them at the same moment, by which 
means they may be heated to any degree of tem- 
perature, up to the point of ebullition. Thus the 
absolute contact of fire with the dyeing coppers is 
dispensed with, and consequently the wear and tear 
of these is ultimately much diminished. 

The boiler is provided with two safety valves, one 
of which is attached to a pipe passing to the outside 
of the building : when the steam has been generated 
in such quantity as to exert a given pressure within 
the boiler, it escapes by the latter valve. 

A cistern, which is in an apartment above the 
boiler, supplies the latter with water when necessary. 
By means of a simple though ingenious piece of ma- 
chinery, the boiler can, without any attendance, 
communicate its wants to the cistern, and they are 
immediately supplied. The establishment has an 


abundant supply of the town water and also an ex- 
cellent well below the dye-house, and, by means of a 
powerful forcing-pump, this water can be conveyed 
to any part of the premises. 

In the finishing rooms, no charcoal fires are re- 
quired ; the frames on which the silk or other mate- 
rial is extended, can be placed over two metal 
cylinders, which run parallel to each other : these 
cylinders can be heated to any required degree, and 
the heat can be kept equable throughout, for any 
period of time, by allowing a current of steam to 
pass through them. By this arrangement, no ac- 
cident from an unequal heat, or one too intense, can 
possibly happen to the most delicate fabric. 

All the arrangements throughout the remaining 
parts of the establishment are systematic and 



I AM one of those unfortunate youths to whom the Muse has 
glanced a sparkling of her light, — one of those who pant for dis- 
tinction, but have not within them that immortal power which 
alone can command it. There are many, — some, sir, may be 
known to you, who feel keenly and earnestly the eloquence of 
heart and mind in others, but who cannot, from some inability or 
unobtrusiveness, clearly express their own tJioughts and feelings : 
whose lives are but long and silent dreams of romantic pleasure 
and poetic wonderment ; — who almost adore the matchless fancies 
of genuine bards, and love them as interpreters and guardians of 
those visionary delights which are tlie perpetual inmates of their 
bosoms. I know not whether I make myself clear to you ; — if I 
do not, you will see that my confusion arises rather from a de- 
fective power than a defective will. I love the Poets: I live in 
the light of their fancies. It is my best delight to wander forth 
on summer evenings, when the air is fresh and clear, — and the 
leaves of the trees are making music with it, — and the birds are 
busy] with their wings, — fluttering themselves to rest, — and a 
brook is murmuring along almost inaudibly, and the sun is going 


quietly down : — it is at this time delicious to muse over the works 
of our best bards. Some time last year, I had roamed in an evening 
like to one of those I have spoken of; and, after dwelling on the 
fairy beauties of Spenser, and from thence passing to the poets of 
my own time, and comparing the latter with some that had 
gone before, I cast myself on a romantic bank by a brook side. 
The silence around me, save the home returning bee with its 
" drowsy hum," and the moaning sound of distant cattle, and the 
low, sullen gurgling of waters — lulled me into sleep. The light 
of my thoughts gilded my dream ; — my vision was a proof of 
mental existence when the bodily sense had passed away. I have 
a great desire to attempt giving publicity to my dream, but I 
have before told you how limited are my powers of expression ; — 
so I must rely upon your goodness, in receiving the crude des- 
cription, or not. 

Methought — (this, I believe, is the established language of 
dreams) — methought I was walking idly along a romantic vale, 
which was surrounded with majestic and rugged mountains; a 
small stream struggled through it, and its waves seemed the 
brightest crystal I had ever witnessed. I sat me down on its 
margin, which was rocky and beautiful (so far my vision was 
copied directly from life). As I mused, a female figure rose like 
a silvery mist from the waters, and advanced, with a countenance 
full of light, and a form of living air : her garments floated round 
her like waves, and her hair basked on her shoulders — 

** Like sunny beams on alabaster rocks." 

There was a touch of immortality in her eyes, — and, indeed, her 
visage altogether was animated with a more than earthly glory* 
She approached me with smiles, and told me she was the guardian 
of the stream that flowed near, and that the stream itself was the 
true Castalla?i, which so many ^'rave of, though they know it 
not.'" I turned with fresh delight to gaze on the water; its music 
sounded heavenly to me, I fancied that there was a pleasant dac- 
tylic motion in its waves. The spirit said, that from the love I 
bore to her favorite, Spenser, she would permit me to see (myself 
unseen) the annual procession of living bards to fetch water from 
the stream on that day : — I looked her my thanks as well as I 
was able ; it was out of my power to express them ; so you see 
my old complaint did not forsake me even on the brink of immor- 
tality. She likewise informed me, that it was customary for each 
Poet, as he received his pprtion, to say in what manner he 
intended to use it. The voice of the Spirit was such as fancy 


has heard in some wild and lovely spot among the hills or 
lakes of this world at twilight time : I felt my soul full of music 
while listening to it, and held my breath in very excess of delight. 
Suddenly I heard the sound of approaching feet, and a confused 
mingling of voices ; the Spirit touched me into invisibility, and 
then softly faded into sunny air herself. 

In a little time I saw a motley crowd advancing confusedly to 
the stream : I soon perceived that they were each provided with 
vessels to bear away some portion of the immortal waters. They 
all paused at a little distance from the spot on which I was 
reclining; and then each walked singly and slowly from the 
throng and dipped his vessel in the blue wild wave of Castaly. 
As well as I can recollect, I will endeavour to describe the 
manner and words of the most interesting of our living poets on 
this most interesting occasion. The air about the spot seemed 
brighter with their presence, and the waves danced along with a 
livelier delight : Pegasus might be seen coursing the winds in 
wild rapture on one of the neighbouring mountains, and sounds 
of glad and viewless wings were heard at intervals in the air, as 
if " troops of spirits were revelling over head and rejoicing at the 

And first, methought, a lonely and melancholy figure slowly 
moved forth and silently filled a Grecian urn : — I knew by the 
look of nobility, and the hurried and turbulent plunge with which 
the vessel was dashed into the stream, that the owner was Lord 
jByron. He shed some tears while gazing on the water, and ■ 
they seemed to make it purer and fairer : he declared that he 
would keep the urn by him, untouched "for some years;" but 
he had scarcely spoken, ere he had sprinkled forth some careless 
drops on the earth. lie suddenly retreated. 

There then advanced a polite personage very oddly clad; he 
had a breast plate on, and over that a scotch plaid — and, strange 
to say, with these, silk stockings and dress shoes; this gentleman 
brought an old helmet for his vessel ; — I guessed him to be 
Walter Scott. His helmet did not hold enough for a very 
deep draught, but the water it contained took a pleasant sparkle 
from the warlike metal which shone through its shallowness. He 
said he had disposed of his portion on advantageous terras. 

Next came Thomas Moore. You might have known him 
by the wild lustre of his eye, and the fine freedom of his air ; he 
gaily dipped a goblet in the tide, and vowed, in his high spirited 
manner, that he would turn his share to nectar : he departed with 


smiles. I heard the wings play pleasantly in the air while he 
was bending over the stream. 

I now perceived a person advance whom I knew to be Southey. 
His brow was bound by a wreath of faded laurel, which had 
every mark of town growth. He appeared quite bewildered, and 
scarcely could remember his way to the inspiring stream. His 
voice was chaunting the praises of kings and courts as he advanced, 
but he dropt some little poems behind him, as he passed me, 
which were very opposite in tone to what he himself uttered. 
He was compelled to stoop before he could reach the water, and 
the gold vessel, which he used, procured but little at last. He 
declared that his intention was to make sack of what he obtained. 
On retiring, he mounted a cream-colored horse, which was in 
waiting, and set off in uneven paces for St. James'. 

Then appeared Rogers with a glass in his hand, which, 
from the cypher engraved thereon, had evidently once belonged 
to Oliver Goldsmith. He caught but a few drops, and these he 
meant to make the most of, by mingling them with common 

Crabbe, with a firm step and a steady countenance, walked 
sedately to the stream, and plunged a wooden bowl into it : — he 
observed that he should make strong ale for the country people, 
of all that he took away ; — and that, after the first brewing, h6 
should charitably allow Mr. Fitzgerald to make small beer for 
his own use. 

In a pensive attitude, Montgomery sauntered to the water's 
brink; — he there mused awhile, — uttered a few somethings of half 
poetry and half prayer, — dipped a little mug of Sheflfield ware in 
the wave, and retired in tears. 

With a wild yet nervous step Campbell came from the 
throng; — light visions started up in the fair distances as he 
moved, and the figure of Hope could be faintly discerned amidst 
them, — she smiled on him as he advanced. He dipped his bowl 
in tlie stream with a fine bold air, and expressed his intention of 
analysing part of the water which he procured. 

Next came Hunt with a rich and fanciful goblet in his hand 
finely enamelled with Italian landscapes ; he held the cup to his 
breast as he approached, and his eyes sparkled with frank delight. 
After catching a wave, in which a sun-beam seemed freshly melted, 
he intimated that he should water hearts'-ease and many favorite 
flowers with it. The sky appeared of a deep blue as he was 

VOL. v. — 1835. LL 


Lord Strangford would now have advanced but the voice 
of the spirit forbade him, — as he did not come for the water on his 
own account. 

Coleridge, Lamb, and Lloyd walked forth arm-in-arm, 
and moved gently to tlie stream : — they conversed, as they passed, 
on the beauties of the country, on its peaceful associations, and 
on the purity of domestic affections. Their conversation then 
turned to poetry, — and from the simplicity of the remarks of 
Lloyd and Lamb, I found that their very hearts were wedded to 
innocence and peace ; Coleridge talked in a higher strain, but he 
at last confused himself with the abstruseness of his own obser- 
vations : he hinted at a metaphysical Poem he was about to 
write in 100 books, Lamb remarked to him that he should prefer 
one of his affectionate and feeling sonnets to all liis wanderings 
of mind . Each of these Poets held in his hand a simple porrenger 
— declaring, that it brought the finest recollections of frugal fare 
and country quiet: Lamb and Lloyd dipped in a bright but 
rather shallow part of the stream, — Coleridge went to the depths 
where he might have caught the purest water, had he not unfor- 
tunately clouded it with the sand which he himself disturbed at 
bottom. Lamb and Lloyd stated that they should take their 
j)orrengers home and share their contents with the amiable and 
simple hearts dwelling there; Coleridge was not positive as to' 
the use to which he should apply his portion of the stream, till 
he had ascertained what were the physical reasons for the sand's 
propensity to mount and curl itself in water : he thought, how- 
ever, of clubbing it witli the portions of his companions and 
making a lake of the whole. These three Poets left the stream 
in the same manner they approached it. 

Last came a calm and majestic figure moving serenely towards 
the stream : the Celandines and small flowers sprang up to catch 
the pressure of his feet, the sun-light fell with a finer glow around, 
spirits rustled most mirthfully and musically in the air, and a 
wing every now and then twinkled into sight, (like the autumn 
leaf that trembles and flashes up to the sun) and its feathers of 
wavy gold were almost too sparkling to be looked upon; the 
waters of Castaly ran brighter as he approached, and seemed to 
play and dimple with pleasure at his presence. It was Words- 
worth ! In his hand he held a vase of pure chrystal, and, when 
he had reached the brink of the stream, the wave proudly swelled 
itself into his cup : at this moment the sunny air above his brow, 
became embodied, and tlie glowing and lightsome Spirit shone 


into being, and dropt a garland on his forehead; sounds etherial 
swelled, and trembled, and revelled in the air, and forms of light 
played in and out of sight, and all around seemed like a living 
world of breathing poetry. Wordsworth bent with reverence over 
the vase and declared that the waters he had obtained should be the 
refreshment of his soul ; he then raised his countenance, which had 
become illumined from the wave over which he had bowed, and 
retired with a calm dignity. 

The sounds of stirring wings now ceased, the air became less 
bright, and the flowers died away upon the banks. No other 
Poet remained to obtain water from the Castalian stream, but still 
it sparkled and played along, with a soul-like and melodious souncl- 
On a sudden I heard a confusion of tongues behind me; on 
turning round, I found that it arose from a mistaken set of gentle- 
men who were chattering and bustling and dipping at a little 
brook, which they deemed was the true Castalian ; their splashing 
and vociferation, and bustle, can only be imagined by those who 
have seen a flock of geese wash themselves in a pond with gabbling 
importance. There was Spencer, with a goblet, lent to him by 
a lady of quality, and Halley simpering, and bowing, and 
reaching with a tea-cup at the water, and Wilson with a child's 
pap-spoon, an1?l Bowles laboriously engaged in filling fourteen 
nut-shells, and Lewis slowly and mysteriously plunging an old 
skull into the brook : while poor Cottle fumed and angered, but 
scarcely reached the stream at last. There were no encouraging 
signs in the elements, no delightful sounds of attendant spirits, 
— no springing up of flowers to cheer these worthies in their pur- 
suits : — they seemed perfectly satisfied with their own greatness, 
and were flattered into industry by their ovvn vanity and loudness. 
After some time, the perpetual activity of tongues fatigued my 
ear, and I turned myself from the noisy crowd, towards the si- 
lent Heavens : — There, to my astonished and delighted eyes, 
appeared Siiakspeare, surrounded with excessive light, with 
Spenser on one hand, and Milton on the other, — and with the 
best of our early Bards thronging about him. One glance of his 
eye scared the silly multitude from the brook; — then, amidst 
unearthly music, he calmly ascended, and was lost in the splen- 
dours of the sky. — At this moment I awoke. The evening was 
getting chili around me ; — the breeze was coldly whispering 
through, the foilage, and the deer were couching to rest on the 
spangled grass. I arose, — and musing on the wonders of my 
dream, — slowly bent my way homewards. 



"What a delightful prospect/' said I to ray friend, 
having reached, by a narrow and steep path, Staddon 
Height. " How grand and beautifully picturesque 
the natural scenery — how stupendous the artificial 
dispositions from the combined labour of tiny man ! " 
for on our left front lay the Breakwater, as a line 
.upon the liquid sheet, and below, huge ships, which 
appeared as dots thereon, with, at a short distance, 
an inward-bound steamer, running like a thing of life 
upon the surface. 

" Nature and Art,'' said my friend, " appear for 
once competitors, and were I called upon as umpire, 
I should almost decide for the latter.'' 

"And why," I rejoined, "when we behold 
Nature so gay and gallant ? " 

" I know not why," said my friend, " for in giving 
my voice against Nature — with whom, who or what 
can cope ? — I give it against my philosophy : and 
yet," continued he, " I am, on the present occasion, 
disposed to be more obstinately positive than becom- 
ingly philosophic, when I see passing, and before 
me, such surprising effects of human ingenuity. 
These are, to me at least, novely' he continued, " the 
cause perhaps of my decision — my inclination from 
truth ; and here be pleased to accept novelty as my 
* because,' With the grandeur of Nature's local 
doings years have made me familiar ; but the works 
of Art, as now before me, are new — thence, more 
eno'agingly attractive — thence my preference ! So 
tolerate my obstinate conclusion ; and fancy, by the 
same rule, that, at times, an automaton butterfly will 
be more an object of our delight and wonder than 
the inimitably exquisite natures papilio.'' 

"There is before us," said I, " ample food for the 
mind also." 

"Ample indeed," replied my friend, "deliciously 
inviting. If in his route Xenophon had viewed the 
Breakwater, he might have called his ten thousand, 


and exclaimed : — ^ Behold the extended line before 
you. See the surprising effects of order and union. 
This mighty work is composed of rude and single 
stones, which being dropped to the direction of the 
skilful designer ; are certain of securing their firm 
and permanent level. Each stone, of itself, though 
massive, is but as a pebble, and would be subject to 
the continual controul of the embodied billow ; but, 
in union, the billow approaches — it retires — broken 
— vanquished. As such, fellow soldiers, let us con- 
sider ourselves ! separated from our companions in 
arms, we are as the pebbles beneath us, scattered 
and broken by the fury of the tempest : — but united ! 
the defiance of our proud -created foes — the barrier 
wall and citadel of ourselves and of our country ! ' 
Ah ! " continued my friend, '^ Plato himself might 
have selected this spot for docttine, though he re- 
jected the mountain's brow, when recommended by 
his physicians, for health and longevity. We will 
therefore suppose him, after having ascended the 
steep, like ourselves, occupying our position, and 
thus addressing his scholars : — ^ I have selected and 
trodden this tedious course for the purpose of im- 
pressing on your minds the necessity of mental 
exertion to him who is desirous of enjoying mental 
delight. We might have continued in the valley, but 
by such continuance we must have lost the beautiful 
and almost boundless view before us. See you that 
extended sea-wall, the performance of skilful and 
continued labour. Behold you the surge, lifting its 
infuriated head, in seeming derision of the check 
before it. Even as this wall, am I, your monitor. 
The troubled waters outside are as the roughness of 
natural manners — the tranquil waters inside as the 
serenity of the cultivated mind. Both are portions 
of one and the same element—but how seemingly 
different, in character. The one side exhibiting the 
rashness of ignorance ; the other the placidity of 
instruction. There only great power can secure to 
itself even physical existence. — Here the smallest 


creature of the sea has safety and pleasure. Tolerate, 
then, the check which wisdom prescribes, foras- 
much as you are certain her reward will follow ; and 
draw your lessons from whatever opens, whether it 
be from the book of Nature or of Art : for he that 
is wisely copious in his draught will have this advan- 
tage — he can boast the most extensive hbrary. He 
will have this earher pleasure, the certainty of knowing 
that his course is the course dictated by Wisdom 
and illumined by Virtue — and the sure road to true 
honour and unfading happiness.' Thus might reason 
Plato,'' said my cheerful friend — with much em- 
phasis on the auxiliary verb — " or rather," continued 
he, " thus do I momlize ! " 

"Yes," I replied, ^^ Plato thou reasonest well,'' 
In such manner passed on ourselves and our agreeable 
time, with frequent homeward stoppings — sometimes 
suddenly to let a beetle pass — for the path would 
not admit two a-breast ; and so much were " we 
ourselves'* amused with our philosophy, that the 
Batten received^ our steps almost before we were 
fully conscious. To render the now short course a 
little shorter by preserving unbroken the chain of 
pleasure, I iiiniinated for thought — and it sti-uck me, 
if my friend's admonition had been spoken by Plato, 
what term the sage would have applied for Break- 
water, I embodied this thought in a question. 

" The word was not used by me," said my friend, 
" I used the term sea-ioall ; but it is for you to say, 
which is the more Attic — more classical: although, 
had I used Breakwater — Greek copiousness and com- 
pounds might have ably borne out the ' broad-should- 
ered Athenian.' "^ 

" Likely enough," said I, "and had he taken for 
the subject of one of his early poems an object which 
now meets my view, and the onli/ one remaining of 
several which gave presageful interest to the old 

* "His original name was J m/or/f.v, and he received that of 
Plato from the broadness of his shoulders." 


folks of Plymouth, how, think you, Plato would 
have rendered it Greece V^ 

" Flato reasoned welly ^ said my cheerful friend. 
" He was classical you will admit, and must have 
winged classically. The performances which neither 
drew the attention nor gained the approbation of his 
maturity, he destroyed. Thus perished his early 
writings for such as the world and himself might 
approve : but," continued he, '^ what is the object to 
which you allude ? " 

" The Lambhay bell-post," said I — " or by meto- 
nomy — the Lambhay Bell." 

Here my friend laughed and I laughed — we both 
laughed — ^fbr our play was a mental play^ — a sort of 
bo-peep skipping from the sublime to the ridiculous 
— but neither was disposed to have a war of words, 
nor seem, to the other's disadvantage, hyper-criti- 
cal ; for smoke and sound had rivetted us to more 
engaging, though not more gratifying recollections ; 
while home and household — love and labour — arose 
as necessary substitutes for the mind's reveries on 
our Athos — Staddon's steepy Heights. 

J. R. B. 


You see there was wanst a mighty dacent boy, called Kishogue 
^ — and not a complater chap was in the siven parishes nor himself 
— and for drinkin' or coortin' (and by the same token he was a 
darlint among the girls, he was so bowld), or cudgellin', or runnin,' 
or wrastlin' or the like o' that, none could come near him; and 
at patthern, or fair, or the dance, or the wake, Kishogue was the 
flower of the flock. Well, to be sure, the gentlemen iv the 
counthry did not belove him so well as his own sort — that is the 
eldherly gintlemen, for as to the young 'squires, by gor they 
loved him like one of themselves, and bether almost, for they 
knew well that Kishogue was the boy to put them up to all sorts 
and sizes of divelment and divarshin, and that was all they 
wanted —but the owld, studdy (steady) gintlemen— the respon- 


sible people like, did n't give into his ways ai all — and in throth, 
they used to be thinkin' that if Kishogue was out of the counthry, 
body and bones, that the counthry would not be the worse iv it, 
in the laste, and that the deer, and the hares, and the pattheridges 
would n't be scarcer in the laste, and that the throut and the 
salmon would lade an aisier life — but they could get no howlt 
of him good or bad, for he was as cute as a fox, and there was no 
sitch thing as getting him at an amplush, at all, for he was like 
a weasel, almost — asleep wid his eyes open. Well ; that 's the 
way it was for many a long day, and Kishogue was as happy 
as the day was long, antil, as bad luck id have it, he made a 
mistake one night, as the story goes, and by dad how he could 
make the same mistake was never cleared up yet, barin' that the 
night was dark, or that Kishogue had a dhrop o' dhrink in ; but 
the mistake was made, and this was the mistake, you see— that 
he consaived he seen his own mare threspassin* an the man's 
field, by the road side, and so, with that, he ootched the mare — 
that is, the mare to all appearance, but it was not his own mare, 
but the 'squire's horse, which he tuck for his own mare, — all in 
a mistake, and he thought that she had sth rayed away, and not 
liken' to see his baste trespassin' an another man's field, what 
does he do, but he dhrives home the horse in a mistake, you see, 
and how he could do the like is hard to say, except'n that the 
niglit was dark, as I said before, or that he had a dhrop too 
mucli in ; but, howsomever, the mistake was made, and a sore 
mistake it was for poor Kishogue, for he never persaived it at all, 
antil three days afther, when the polisman kern to him and towld 
him he should go along with him. " For what?" says Kishogue. 
" Oh, you 're mighty innocent," says the polisman. "Thrue for 
you, sir," says Kishogue, as quite (quiet) as a child. ** And 
where are you goin' to take me, may I make bowld to ax, sir ?'' 
says he. " To jail," says the Peeler. ** For what?" says Kis- 
hogue. " For staalin' the 'squire's horse," says the Peeler. 
** It's the first I heered of it," says Kishogue. "Throth, then, 
't wont be the last you '11 hear of it," says the other. Why, tare, 
an ouns, sure it's no housebreakin' for a man to dhrive home his 
own mare," says Kishogue. "No," says the Peeler; "but it 
is burglaarious to sarcumvint another man's horse," says he. 
" But supposin' 't was a mistake." says Kishogue. " By gor it 
'11 be the dear mistake to you !" says the polisman. "That's a 
poor case," says Kishogue. But there was no use in talk in' — 
he might as well have been whistlin' jigs to a milestone as sthri- 


vin' to invaigle the polisman, and the ind of it was, that he was 
obleeged to march off to jail, and there he lay in lavendher, like 
Paddy Ward's pig, until the 'sizes kem an, and Kishogue, you 
see, bein' of a high sperrit, did not like the iday at all of beiu' 
undher a compliment to the king for his lodgin*. Besides, to a 
chap like him, that was used all his life to goin' round the world 
for sport, the thoughts o' confinement was altogether contagious, 
though indeed his friends endayvoured for to make it as agreeable 
as they could to him, for he was mightily beloved in the coun- 
thry, and they were goin' to see him mornin, upon, and night — 
throth, they led the turnkey a busy life, lettin' them in and out, 
for they wor comin' and goin' evermore, like Mulligan's blanket. 
Well, at last the 'sizes kem an, and down kem the sheriffs, and 
the judge, and the jury, and the witnesses, all book-sworn to tell 
nothin' but the born thruth : and with that, Kishogue was the 
first that was put on his thrial, for not knowin' the differ betune 
his own mare and another man's horse, for they wished to give 
an example to the counthry, and he was bid to howld up his 
hand at the bar (and a fine big fist he had of his own, by the same 
token), and up he held it — no ways.danted, at all, but as bowld 
as a ram. Well, then, a chap in a black coat, and frizzled wig 
and spectacles gets up, and he reads and reads, that you 'd 
think he 'd never have done readin' ; and it was all about Kis- 
hogue — as we heerd afther — but could not make out at the time 
— and no wondher : and in throth, Kishogue never done the half 
of what the dirty little ottomy was readin' about him — barrin' he 
• knew lies iv him; and Kishogue himself, poor fellow, got frek- 
ened at last, when he heerd him goin' an at that rate about him, 
but afther a bit he tuk heart and said : — " By this and by that, 
I never done the half o' that any how!" " Silence in the coort ! ! !'' 
says the crier — puttin' him down that a-way. Oh there 's no 
justice for a poor boy at all ! '' Oh murther," says Kishogue, 
" is a man's life to be swore away afther this manner, and must n't 
spake a word ? " " Howl your tongue ! " say my lord judge. 
And so afther some more jabberin' and gibberish, the little man 
in the spectacles threw down the paper and asked Kishogue if he 
was guilty or not guilty. " I never 'done it my lord," says 
Kishogue. "Answer as you are bid, sir," says the spectacle 
man/. " I 'm innocent, my lord ! " says Kishogue. '* Bad cess 
to you, can't you say what you 're bid," says ray lord the judge; 
'* Guilty or not guilty ?" " Not guilty," says Kishogue. " I do n't 
believe you," says the judge. " Small blame to you ;" says Kis- 
VOL. v.— 1835. , MM 


hogue; "you 're ped for hangin' people, and you must do some- 
thing for your wages." "You 've too much prate, sir," says my 
lord. " Faix then, I 'm thinkin* its yourself and your friend the 
hangman will cure me o' that very soon," says Kishogue. And 
thrue for him, faith, he was n't far out in sayin' that same, for 
they murthered him intirely. They brought a terrible sight of 
witnesses agin him, that swore away his life an the cross-exam- 
ination ; and indeed, sure enough, it was the Grossest exam'ination 
altogether I ever seen. Oh, they wor the bowld witnesses that 
would sware a hole in an iron pot any day in the year. Not but 
that Kishogue's friends done their duty by him. Oh, the stud to 
him like men, and swore a power for him, and sthrove to make 
out a lullaby for him ; maynin* by that same, that he was asleep 
in another place at the time; but it would n't do, they could not 
make it plazin' to the judge and the jury, and ray poor Kishogue 
was condimned for to die; and the judge put an his black cap, 
and indeed it is not becomin', and discoorsed the hoight of fine 
language, and gev Kishogue a power o* good advice, that it was 
a mortyal pity Kishogue did n't get sooner ; and the last words 
the judge said was, "The Lord have marcy an your sowl ! " 
" Thank 'ee, my lord," said Kishogue; " though indeed it is few 
has luck or grace afther your prayers." And sure enough, faith ; 
for the next Sathurday Kishogue was ordhered out to be hanged, 
and the sthreets through which he was to pass was mighty throng ; 
for in them days, you see, the people used to be hanged outside 
o* the town, not all as one as now when we 're hanged genteely 
out o* the front o' the jail : but ih them days they did not attind 
to the comforts o* the people at all, but put them into a cart, all 
as one a conthairy pig goin* to market, and stravaiged them 
through the town to the gallows, that was full half a mile beyant 
j^ . * * * * |3ut^ tQ ijg sure, when they kem to the comer of the 
crass streets, where the VViddy Houlaghan*s public-house was 
then, afore them dirty swaddlers knocked it down and built a 
meetin'-house there — bad cess to them ! sure they 're spylin* 
divarshin wherever they go, — when they kem there, as I was 
tellin' you, the purcesshin was always stopped, %nd they had a 
fiddler and mulled wine for the divarshin of the pres'ner, for to 
raise his heart for what he was to go through ; for, by all accounts 
it is not plazin' to be goin' to be hanged, supposin' you die in a 
good cause itself, as my uncle Jim towld me when he suffer'd for 
killen' the ganger. Well, you see, they always stopped ten min- 
utes at the public-house, not to hurry a man with liis dhrink, 


and, besides, to give the pres'ner an opportunity for sayin' an 
odd word or so to a friend in the crowd, to say nothin' of its 
behr mighty improvin^ to the throng, to see the man lookin' 
pale at the thoughts of death, and may be an idification and 
a- warnin' to thim that was inclined to sthray. But, however, 
it happened, and the like never happened afore nor since ; 
but as bad luck would have it, that day, the devil a fiddler 
was ther whin Kishogue dhruv up in the cart, no ways dan- 
ted at all ; but the minit the cart stopped rowlin* he called out 
as stout as a ram, *' Sind me out Tim Riley here," — Tim Riley 
was the fiddler's name, — " sind me out Tim Riley here," says 
he, " that he may rise my heart wid the Rakes o* Mallow ;" for 
he was a Mallow man, by all accounts, and mighty proud of his 
town. Well, av coorse the tune was not to be had, bekase Tim 
Riley was not there, but was lyin' dhrunk in a ditch at the same 
time coming home from confissin, and when poor Kishogue 
heerd that he could not have his favorite tune, it wint to his heart 
to that degree, that he 'd hear of no comfort in life, and he bid 
them dhrive him an, and put him out o* pain at wanst. " Oh, 
take the dhrink, any how, aroon," says the Widdy Houlaghan, 
who was mighty tinder-hearted, and always attinded the man 
that was goin' to be hanged with the dhrink herself, if he was 
ever so grate a stranger ; but if he was a frind of her own, she 'd 
go every fut to the gallows wid him, and see him suffer. Oh, 
she was a darlint! Well, — "take the dhrink Kishogue, my 
jewel," says she, handin' him up a brave big mug o' mulled 
wine, fit for a lord, — but he wouldn't touch it; — "Take it out of 
my sight,'^ says he, " for my heart is low bekase Tim Riley de- 
saived me, when I expected to die game, like one of o' the 
Rakes o' Mallow! Take it out o' my sight!" says he, puttin' 
it away wid his hand, and sure 'twas the first time Kishogue was 
ever known to refuse the dhrop o' dhrink, and many remarked 
that it was the change before death was comin' over him. Well, 
away they rowled to the gallows, where there was no delay in life 
for the pris'nerr, and the sheriff asked him if he had any thing to 
say to him before he suffered; but Kishogue hadn't a word to 
throw to a dog, and av coorse he said nothin' to the sheriff, and 
wouldn 't say a word that might be improvin', even to the crowd, 
by way of idification ; and indeed a sore disappointment it was 
to the throng, for they thought he would make an illigant dyin 
speech ; and the prenthers there, and the ballad-singers, all 
ready to tqi<e it down complate, and thought it was a dirty turn 


of Kishogue to chate them out o* their honest penny, like ; but 
they owed him no spite for all that, for they considhered his heart 
was low on account of the disappointment ; and he was lookin' 
mighty pale while they they wor makin' matthers tidy for hin>; 
and, indeed, the last words he said himself was, " Put me out 
o* pain at wanst, for my heart is low bekase Tim Riley desaived 
me, when I thought he would rise it, that I might die like a rale 
Rake o' Mallow !" And so, to make a long story short, my 
jew'l, they done the business for him : it was soon over wid him, 
it was just one step wid hin'i, aff o' the ladder into glory ; and 
to do him justice, though he was lookin' pale, he died bowld, 
and put his best leg foremost. Well, what would you think, 
but just as all was over wid him, there was a shout outside o* 
the crowd, and a shilloo that you 'd think, would split the sky, 
and what should we see gallopin' up to the gallows, but a man 
covered with dust an a white horse, to all appearance, but it 
was n't a white horse but a black horse only white wid the foam. 
He was dhruv to that degree, and the man hadn't a breath to 
dhraw, and couldn't spake, but dhrew a ])iece o' paper out of 
the breast of his coat, and handed it up to the sheriff; and 
myjew'l, the sheriff grewn as white as the paper itself, when 
he clapt his eyes an it; and says he, "Cut him down — cut him 
down this minute!" says he; and the dhragoons made a slash 
at the messenger, but he ducked his head and sarcumvinted them. 
And then the sheriff shouted out, " Stop, you villians, and bad 
luck to yiz, you murtherin' vagabonds,'* says he to the ^ojers; 
"is it going to murther the man you wor? — It is n't him at all 
I mane, but the man that 's hangin'. Cut him down," says he: 
and tliey cut him down ; but it was no use. It was all over wid 
poor Kishogue ; for he was as dead as small beer, and as stiff as 
a crutch. " Oii, tare an ouns!" says the sheriff, tarin' the hair 
aff his head at the same time, with the fair rage. " Is n't it a 
poor case that he 's dead, and here is a reprieve that is come for 
him? but, bad cess to him," says he, "it's his own fault, he 
would n't take it aisy." " Oh, millia murther, millia murther! *' 
cried out the Widdy Houlaghan, in the crowd. " Oh, Kishogue, 
my darlint, why did you refuse my mulled wine? Oh, if you 
had stopped wid me to take your dhrop o' dhrink, you M be 
alive and meriy now ! " So that is the maynin' of the Curse o' 
Kishogue; for, you see, Kishogue was hanged for lavin' his 
liquor behind him. ' 



The writings of Mrs. Hemans have been so justly 
estimated, that any praise of ours can be Httle more 
than an echo of the pubUc voice. Her poetry, so 
full of deep sentiment, so pure, and elevating, calls 
up images and emotions, like those v^ith which we 
view the briUiancy of the evening star in the stillness 
of a summer night. It alhes itself to every thing 
belonging to the better part of our nature. Her 
poems, indeed, are of unequal merit. In some of 
them, as the Voice of Spring, and the Revellers, the 
conception is so imaginative, and there is such free- 
^ dom of execution, that they approach nearer than 
almost any other poetry, to giving in words the very 
forms of thought and imagination. The imperfection 
of language, the embarrassments of versification, all 
that is material and mechanical disappears ; and the 
vision floats before us "an aery stream." There is a 
correspondence of all the parts, contributing to a 
common effect ; the flow and expression of the lan- 
guage is in accordance with the thought and senti- 
ment ; and the right tone of feeling, true to nature 
and virtue, is heard throughout, without failure or 
exaggeration. With this unbroken unity of charac- 
ter, her finer poems " discourse most eloquent music." 
The charm is found equally in others, very different 
from the two just mentioned. It appears, for 
instance, in the verses on a dead infant, suggested 
by one of Chantrey's statues, beginning, "Thou 
sleepest ; but when wilt thou wake, fair child ? " 
The marble of Chantrey can hardly have more of 
calm, monumental, melancholy beauty than these 
lines. It appears again in the dreamy and shadowy 
flow of images through her Elysium, over which is 
diffused so much truth and tenderness of feeling ; 
in the rapid and strong conception, and lofty senti- 
ment of her Pilgrim Fathers ; in the solemn and 
gloomy grandeur of her Treasures of the Deep ; in 
her magnificent reply to the question, Where slumber 


England's dead ; and in the agony and triumph of 
moral energy in her Gertrude. The subject of these 
last verses might have seemed too horrible for poe- 
try ; but with the commanding power of true genius, 
and the strong sympathy of high feeling, she has 
brought to view all its moral sublimity ; throwing a 
pall over what is hideous in physical suffering. But 
besides the poems entitled to be placed in the same 
class with those which have been named, there are 
others written with far less display of genius, but 
pleasing, correct, in good taste, elegant, or animated. 
These would have entitled their author to a distin- 
guished rank among poets. Those of a higher order, 
and there are many such, are permanent accessions 
to the literature of the world. They have increased 
the means of human refinement and virtue. 

The works of Mrs. Hemans are eminently distin- 
guished, by moral beauty, and the noble expression 
of high sentiments. Images of what is lovely, 
affecting, and glorious in human character are re- 
flected from her mind as from an unsullied mirror. 
Of this her last volume affords some of the most 
striking examples. It is the praise of this lady, that 
her literary course was one of continual improvement. 
With the exception, perhaps, of her tragedies, she 
has, heretofore, given to the world no long poem of 
equal power with her Forest Sanctuary, from which 
the following are extracts : — 

The voices of my home, — I hear thera still, 
They have been with me through the dreamy night — 
The blessed household voices, wont to fill 
My heart's clear depths with unalloy'd delight; 
I hear them still, unchanged : — though some from earth 
Are music parted, and the tones of mirth — 
Wild, silvery tones, that rang through days more bright. 
Have died in others, — yet to me they come, 
Singing of boyhood back — the voices of my home. 

They call me through this hush of woods, reposing 
In the grey stillness of the summer morn. 
They wander by when heavy flowers are closing. 
And thoughts grow deep, and winds and stars are born ; 


Ev'n as a fount's remember'd gushings burst 
On the parch'd traveller in his hour of thirst. 
E'en thus they haunt me with sweet sounds, till worn 
By quenchless longings, to my soul I say, 
O ! for the dove's svyift wings, that I might flee away, 
And find mine ark, yet whither? I must bear 
A yearning heart within me to the grave. 
* * * * * * * * 

And she to die, she loved the laughing earth 
With such deep joy in its fresh leaves and flowers. 
— Was not her smile even as the sudden birth 
Of a young rainbow, colouring vernal showers ? 
Yes, but to meet her fawn-like step, to hear 
The gushes of wild song, so silvery clear, 
Which, oft unconsciously, in happier hours 
Flow'd from her lips, was to forget the sway 
Of Time and Death below; blight, shadow, dull decay. 

Could this change be ? the hour, the scene, where last 
I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind : 
— A golden vintage-eve ; the heats were pass'd, 
And, in the freshness of the fanning wind, 
Her father sat, where gleamed the first faint star 
Through the lime boughs; and, with her light guitar, 
She, on the greensward at his feet reclined. 
In his calm face laughed up; some shepherd -lay 
Singing, as childhood sings on the lone hills at play. 


Ring, joyous chords ! yet again, again ! 

A swifter still, and a wilder strain ! 

They are here ! — the fair face, and the careless heart, 

And stars shall wane ere the mirthful part. 

— But I met a dimly mournful glance, 

In a sudden turn of the flying dance ; 

I heard the tone of a heavy sigh. 

In a pause of the thrilling melody ; 

And it is not well, that Woe should breathe 

Oh the bright spring-flowers of the festal wreath ; 

— Ye that to Thought and Grief belong. 

Leave, leave the Hall of Song ! 
Ring, joyous chords ! — but who art thou, 
With the shadowy locks o'er thy pale young brow. 
And the world of dreaming gloom that lies 
In the misty depths of thy soft dark eyes ? 
— Thou hast loved, fair girl, thou hast loved too well ! 
Thou art mourning now o'er a broken spell, 
Thou hast poured thy heart's rich treasures forth. 
And art unrepaid for their priceless worth ! 


— Mourn on ! — yet come thou not here the while ; 
It is but a pain to see thee smile! 
— There is not a tone in our songs for thee, 
Home with thy sorrows flee ! 

I^J"o> joyous chords ! — yet again, again ! 
— But what dost thou with the revel's train ? 
A silvery voice through the soft air floats, 
But thou hast no part in the gladdening notes ; 
There are bright young faces that pass thee by, 
But they fix no glance of thy wandering eye ! 
Away ! there 's a void in thy yearning breast, 
Thou weary man ! wilt thou here find rest? 
Away ! for thy thoughts from the scene have fled, 
And the love of thy spirit is with the dead ! 
lliou art but more lone midst the sounds of mirth ! — 
Back to thy silent hearth ! 

Ring, joyous chords! — yet again, again, 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ; 
— But thov, though a reckless mien be thine, 
And thy lip be crown*d with the foaming wine, 
By the fitful bursts of thy laughter loud, 
By thine eye's quick flash through its troubled cloud, 
I know thee, — it is but the wakeful fear 
Of a haunted bosom, that brings thee here; 
I know thee, — thou fearest the lonely Night, 
With her piercing stars, and her deep wind's might; 
There 's a tone in her voice which thou fain would'st shun, 
For it asks what the secret soul hath done; 
And thou, — there 's a dark weight on thine — away ! 
Back to tliy home, and pray ! 

Ring, joyous chords ! — yet again, again, 
A swifter still, and a wilder strain ; 
And bring new wreaths. We will banish all. 
Save the free in heart, from our festive hall. 
On through the maze of the fleet dance, on : 
— But where are the young and the lovely i — gone ! 
Where are the brows with the fresh rose crown'd ? 
And the floating forms with the bright zone bound ? 
And the waving locks, and the flying feet, 
Tliat still should be where the mirthful meet ? 
— They are gone — they are fled — they are parted all ; 
Aliis ! the forsaken hall.